


Mythology + Snare Net

by gaelicspirit



Series: The Ambassador Series [3]
Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missions Gone Wrong, Separations, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-04-21 03:21:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 51,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaelicspirit/pseuds/gaelicspirit
Summary: Set in S2. Jack Dalton defines himself by how well he does one job: protecting MacGyver. But when he wakes up wounded to find Mac missing and no memory of where is partner might be, Jack is lost. And his only way back is to find Mac—alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer/Warning:** Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line. I like to work in quotes now and again. And…the characters swear a bit more in my hands than they do on the show. But being that they’re both ex-military, I figure some creative license is permissible.
> 
> That being said, I am not in the military. Literally everything military related in this story is based on what I’ve read in books and seen in movies or TV. If you are in the military, reading this, and I’ve grossly misrepresented something, I promise that no insult was intended. Also, medical inaccuracies abound. I did research, but…then I fictioned. So, don’t try any of the medical procedures in this story at home, kids.
> 
> Finally, I tend to write long chapters. They say you write what you like to read...and apparently, I like to read long chapters. So.
> 
>  **Author’s Note:** This story is set in the same ‘verse as my other MacGyver stories, _Anvil + Duct Tape_ , and _Wolf + Snow_. You don’t have to read those to enjoy this one, but there are a couple references made and OCs used that hearken back to those stories rather than to cannon. I found that I enjoyed playing in this sandbox so decided to hang out here a little bit longer. I hope you don’t mind…and that you’re entertained. 
> 
> Big thanks to my friend and confidant, **ThruTerrysEyes**. Thanks for your help, as always.

**

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, and a hell of heaven.”  
  
\- John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

**

**Outside of San Jerónimo Coatlán in south-western Mexico**

**0300-ish**

_-Jack-_

Jack Dalton opened his eyes to darkness.

“Hey, wake up.”

He groaned, closing his eyes again. The voice was familiar, demanding.

“Jack. C’mon.”

And bossy.

“’m ‘wake,” he mumbled, then frowned. “ _Why_ am I awake?”

He blinked slowly, grit catching his lashes and making the motion more of an effort.

“It’s your watch.”

MacGyver’s voice was lower than usual, worn through like a balding tire. Jack pressed the heels of his hands into the hollow of his eyes until he saw stars against the darkness, then blinked his sight clear. Not that he could see much; their hide-out was nearly pitch-black, starlight the only thing coming through the rectangle window Mac had cut into the sniper blind.

“Right,” Jack yawned, the word cutting off mid-point as his jaw cracked. “Shove over then.”

Mac released his hold on the night vision scope and rolled stiffly to his side. There wasn’t enough room in the blind for either of them to straighten their legs, but they could sit side-by-side. Jack fumbled for the stake-out piss jar and took care of business before shifting into position, eye on the scope.

“Anything?”

“Nada,” Mac mumbled. Jack heard the sacks of dirt that made up one of their walls crunch as Mac shifted into a more comfortable position. “It’s _almost_ like the man knows what he’s doing.”

“Ooh, sarcasm. _Somebody_ needs a nap,” Jack teased, not taking his eye from the scope, and instead bumping his partner’s shoulder with his hip.

Mac sighed. “It’s just…stupid.”

“What? Staking out your nemesis so we can stop him from killing you?”

“He’s not my nemesis,” Mac muttered. “And we don’t _know_ that warning was about me.”

At this, Jack did spare his partner a glance. Or, rather, a glance in his partner’s direction as he couldn’t even see the outline of Mac’s profile in this light.

“Uh…, yeah we do,” Jack countered. “You humiliated the guy and got him sent back to prison. Really pretty sure ol’ Joaquin was pissed enough to call out his minions.”

“That was a year ago, though,” Mac continued to protest.

Jack looked back through the scope, trying not to remember the chilling moment he stormed El Noche’s compound and realize Mac had been forced to breathe pure nitrogen as a form of torture. “Takes time to plan a war.”

Mac was quiet, his silence screaming into the darkness.

“Men like Joaquin ‘El Noche’ Sancola do not forgive, Mac,” Jack said calmly. “You _know_ this is about you, so why are you fussin’ now?”

There were several beats where all Jack could hear was the quiet of the night hissing against his ears. He knew Mac didn’t want to respond, but he also knew how to wait him out. When dealing with an unwilling MacGyver, patience was the key.

“You.” The word was a reluctant pull of sound, falling from Mac’s lips in a quiet confession.

Jack sat back on his heels. “Me?”

“If it’s about me, then _I_ should be the one to tag the mark, call in the strike, and be done with it,” Mac declared, his tone like venom. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open, any words he might’ve said evaporating before they could escape. The quiet inside the sniper blind pressed against him and he felt more than heard Mac exhale roughly. The scrape of boots against the dirt seemed to echo against the darkness. He knew Mac was curling his legs close to his body, pulling himself into a tight, defensive position, as though bracing for Jack’s response.

“Get some sleep,” Jack said quietly, leaning toward the scope, the compound they were spying on motion-free in the green glow.

“Jack….” The apology in Mac’s tone permeated the name.

That outburst hadn’t been about them. It was Mac’s automatic coping mechanism: push them away before they can leave. Figure out how to do everything possible to survive alone.

Don’t need anyone.

Jack knew this about his partner. He’d worked around it and through it so many times over the years it had become his norm long ago. But there were times when knowing MacGyver only went so far.

He could remind Mac that he wasn’t alone every day; at some point, he needed the younger man to _believe_ it.

When Jack didn’t reply, MacGyver exhaled slowly, then shifted until his slim back was against Jack’s hip. After a few minutes, Mac’s breathing changed and Jack knew he’d drifted off. Jack leaned back, rubbed the grit from his eyes, and refocused on the scope.

The last several weeks had been tough ones for Mac—for both of them really, as Jack couldn’t help but take on his partner’s struggles as his own. It was the only way he knew how to help. New, and not very helpful, information had surfaced about Mac’s father soon after they’d returned from a mission in the Northern Canadian wilderness.

Mac had been pretty wrecked after that mission—mentally and physically. He knew Mac had been going to his friend—and former sniper—Freddie’s group sessions, but it wasn’t clear if he’d actually _talked_ about anything, especially concerning his missing father.

When another enemy from Mac’s past—with the apt moniker of The Ghost—tried to kill the pair of them by blowing up Mac’s house a few weeks ago, memories had surfaced, triggering nightmares and the kid had retreated a bit into his head, which was never a good thing.

For weeks, Jack had been able to see Mac’s wheels turning, puzzle pieces shifting, a quiet, desperate internal struggle seeking a clear path and only finding yet another bramble-covered trail.

If he had to guess—which he did, since Mac was reluctant to spell it out for him—he would say Mac’s biggest struggle wasn’t around memories of what he had or had not done in Afghanistan, or around Phoenix missions that had gone sideways, or of people he’d lost. It was finding a way to cope with being abandoned by his father as a boy and toyed with as an adult.

And that pissed Jack off.

There were days he wanted to beg Mac to just _let it go_. Just accept that his father left and wasn’t coming back and these enigmatic clues were nothing more than yet another way to mess with the kid’s head. He would never ask that of him, though—not because he had any hope of Mac actually _solving_ this puzzle, but because he knew that sometimes surrender could be as savage as any attack.

And if using hope as a tactic was the only way Mac could stay the course, Jack was ready to build a whole strategy on hope.

He took a quick drink from his canteen, then refocused on the compound. They’d received word that one of El Noche’s partners were en route to one of the drug lord’s many remote locations with a shipment—and it was largely hinted that this shipment was not drugs, but human contraband. A special task force had been assigned to confirm and while they hadn’t found evidence of human cargo, they _had_ returned with a partially-burned envelope.

With a surveillance photo of MacGyver inside.

Matty Webber assigned the case to the pair of them and put Jack and Mac on the first transport to Oaxaca, Mexico, with orders to shut down the operation, human cargo or no. This latest piece of information meant that El Noche was orchestrating smuggling runs from prison, evidently still very much a player in the Cartel, and they needed to cut the head off that snake.

The minute they had evidence that the compound was more than just a sprawling, rural estate several miles outside of a village of no more than 5,000 people, their mission was to paint the target and call in an airstrike.

And _Jack_ fully intended to do that himself.

There were things they told themselves to keep moving forward in this world—stories they believed, stories they wanted to believe, stories someone else made them believe. Each story clamored for attention within the thin confines of their skulls, drilling and gnawing, boring its way free to be the one truth that they held onto and acted upon.

One such story, clearly, was Mac thinking he was capable of ordering the deaths of El Noche’s men inside that compound. Mac had been responsible for death, yes, but never when there wasn’t another life in immediate danger.

Never when there was another way.

Jack blinked his blurring vision clear as he saw the gates they’d been staring at for the last fifteen hours begin to open.

“’bout time you got this party started,” he muttered, checking his watch. 0527. Very, very a.m. He debated waking Mac, but the kid had only been asleep for a little over two hours. He waited.

After a few moments, a box truck pulled up to the open gate. Jack could see words painted on the side of the cab.

“Cerb…Cereb….”

He couldn’t make it out.

They’d set up their blind a mile away from the compound and the night vision scope was only so powerful. If it had been daylight, he might have been able to pick out the letters, but as it was, he was lucky to see there _were_ letters.

He waited, watching as the truck pulled through the heavy wooden doors and the gate closed behind it. Sighing, he eased back from the scope. They had to get closer, see what was in that truck. And they needed to do it before the sun came up.

“Mac,” he said quietly, resting a hand on his partner’s shoulder. He felt MacGyver instantly tense beneath his touch, going from unconscious to aware inside a heartbeat. “We gotta move.”

Mac turned; Jack felt the sacks of dirt next to him shift.

“You see something?” Mac asked, voice rough from lack of sleep. He cleared his throat.

“Truck pulled in,” Jack reported. “Big—moving-truck sized. Had some writing on it, but I couldn’t make it out.”

“Okay,” Mac nodded, sitting up to dislodge the blind cover. “Let’s go.”

Jack was a soldier. He knew how to compartmentalize, to pack away the emotion and move forward with the mission. He knew the right time and the wrong time to delve into someone’s damaged psyche.

But this was Mac.

And from the moment he’d met this kid, every bit of logic and good sense took a back seat to his emotions.

“That’s it? Just… _let’s go_?”

He could practically feel Mac’s frown.

“Should there be something else?”

“Okay, enough,” Jack reached out blindly in the dark and grabbed for Mac, catching the younger man’s TAC vest. “I’m done with this macho-man bullshit routine you’ve been practicing since we got this damn assignment. This ain’t you, Mac. You gonna tell me what the hell’s going on with you?”

“Jack, just—“

Jack shook his head, pulling Mac close enough he could feel the other man’s breath on his face. “No, uh-uh. Don’t you ‘Jack’ me. I _know_ you, bud. Something is burning through you like acid in your gut. Now spill it or you’re staying in this sniper blind and _I’m_ going to check out our friends in the moving truck.”

“You really think you can keep me here?” Mac challenged, his tone devoid of emotion.

“I’ve been watching your back for eight years, pal. Even a jarhead like me can pick up a move or two.”

Not to mention he outweighed the kid by thirty pounds of muscle, easy. If he wanted to immobilize Mac, he could do it. But the last thing he wanted to do was hurt him. So, he waited. If they’d been able to see each other, it would have been a staring contest.

“It’s a trap,” Mac sighed.

“Okay, Admiral Ackbar,” Jack scoffed. “You want to elaborate?”

“The fact that this is one of El Noche’s compounds? The false lead about human contraband? The _picture_?”

Jack felt Mac move as he lifted his arm—presumably to tick off fingers, proving his point.

“He wants us here, right _here_ ,” Mac practically growled. “We played into his hands and now _you’re_ going to suffer for it.”

“Oh,” Jack loosened his grip slightly. “So, you’re saying it would have been better if I’d have just let you go on your own, huh? Face this guy’s minions down all by your lonesome.”

Mac was quiet a moment then sagged slightly in Jack’s grip. “At least you’d be alive.”

“Dammit, Mac,” Jack released the younger man’s vest, sinking back on his heels and resting his hands on his thighs. “You are the damned dumbest smart kid I know. What, exactly, do you not understand about me watching your back, huh?”

“I just—“

“And would _you_ have stayed home all cozy while I trapesed out to take care of _my_ nemesis?”

“No, but I—“

“Of course not. Now, I don’t want to hear anything else about you doing this on your own, hear me?” Jack didn’t give Mac a chance to reply. “You aren’t doing _another thing_ on your own. I am with you. Every step of the way. You don’t know that by now, I’m fixin’ to beat it into you.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Mac rushed out, trying to shove the words into the space Jack left by taking a breath. “ _Especially_ because of me.”

“Mac,” Jack said, reaching forward in the dark and finding the side of Mac’s neck. “I’d rather be killed watching your back than alive with you dead.”

“I’d just rather you be alive,” Mac returned.

They quieted a moment, and Jack had to shrug. “Well, I’ll give you that. It’s the preferable option for sure.”

The dark settled around them like a blanket on their shoulders.

“Sorry I was being an asshole,” Mac offered after a few beats.

“It’s okay,” Jack replied, smiling. “You’re allowed to get salty every once in a while.”

“You want to go check out that truck before the sun puts a spotlight on us?”

They slid the blind cover aside and slipped out of the shallow hole they’d dug, the sides shored up by bags filled with the dirt removed from the hole. Their desert camo was dusty from spending the night in a hole. They shouldered their packs and Jack pulled out his rifle while Mac grabbed the scope, then they started walking quickly across the rugged terrain.

Jack scanned the brush at their feet, eyes tripping up periodically to check the dark of the valley around them. Sunrise was just beginning to bruise the sky and create a soft outline of the mountain range, the dust from the dry, packed earth kicking up with each step as they avoided cacti, rocks, and snake holes.

They’d had to drop in several miles east of San Jerónimo Coatlán to avoid the Sierra Madre del Sur mountains, hiking the distance to the isolated compound well outside the village. Just south of their drop point, the mountains had fallen into the sea, making this one of the most physically remote missions they’d been sent on since Canada two months ago.

And it reminded him a hell of a lot of Afghanistan.

“You thinking about Farah?” Mac asked, his low voice rough with memory.

Not really wanting to confess that yes, in fact, he had been and send Mac on _that_ particular trip down nightmare lane, Jack decided to deflect.

“Actually, I was wondering how a kid like you gets so many nemesis-es…nemesi?”

“It’s just nemesis,” Mac chuckled.

“I mean, c’mon, dude…The Ghost, El Noche, _Murdoc_? You’ve got more enemies than Han Solo and you’re not even on the wrong side of thirty.”

“Hey, maybe this _is_ the wrong side,” Mac offered. “And besides…it’s not like you haven’t made some enemies yourself.”

Jack chuffed, almost nostalgic. “Yeah…yeah, that’s true.” He sobered. “But none of them are actively trying to kill me, so. I win.”

“Well, at least no one’s put a bounty on your head,” Mac offered, playing along. “As far as we know.”

“Hold up.” Jack put a hand on Mac’s arm, slowing him as they approached the wall of the compound. “El Noche’s minions setting a trap for you so they can collect on _your_ bounty isn’t exactly a mark in the ‘plus’ column, bud.”

“So you _admit_ it’s a trap,” Mac hissed.

Jack looked over at his younger partner and grinned. He could see Mac’s indignant expression in the fading starlight as the horizon edged a cool blue. “I always think everything is a trap,” he quipped. “Which is why I’m still alive.”

Mac shook his head, pressing his lips closed over whatever retort he’d immediately formed.

“Now,” Jack continued, “let’s go in real quiet like so this doesn’t end with your ass frozen in carbonite. Or…worse.”

They crept along the stone wall that surrounded the compound until they reached the wooden doors that had opened for the truck. The wall was over six feet high; Jack could stretch to his full height and not see over the top. They’d previously checked for cameras when scoping the place earlier, so there was no option to have Riley hack in and view the interior virtually. The best they were going to be able to do would be to peer through the cracks in the gate—or find a way over the wall.

“I can see the truck,” Mac whispered, the side of his face near a crack in the gate. “Says…Cerberus.”

“Wait—I know that,” Jack whispered, their voices barely holding sound. Only the comms in their ears enabled them to hear each other clearly.

“Yeah, it’s the mythical three-headed dog that guards the gates of hell,” Mac said. “Hercules caught it as one of his trials in Homer’s _Odyssey._ ”

Jack huffed. “Right. Because I’ve read the _Odyssey_. Or know shit about Greek mythology.”

“Well,” Mac shrugged. “You did read Percy Jackson.”

Jack scowled at him. “I’m telling you I know it from something else—wait!” He smacked Mac on the shoulder with the back of his hand. “That creepy amusement park.”

“What, the one we passed outside Coatecas Altas?”

“Yeah, remember? It was abandoned and all…haunted looking?”

Mac dropped his chin, one eyebrow arched. Jack took a moment to register being able to see that expression on his partner’s face was not working in their favor.

“ _Puertas del infierno_ , remember?” Jack prompted, his Texas accent butchering the Spanish. “Gates of Hell. The broken-down rollercoaster? It had a picture of a three-headed dog on the side.”

“Cerberus,” Mac breathed, once more looking back through the cracks in the gate. “I remember…,” he glanced back at Jack. “Although I’m not sure if I should be impressed or worried that _you_ do.”

“Hey, you remember Homer, I remember coasters,” Jack offered, shifting his grip on his rifle to try to stretch up and peer over the wall. “Especially haunted ones.”

“You think this truck is from that amusement park?”

“Could be,” Jack offered. “I mean, who else around here has means to build a freaking _amusement park_ besides El Noche, huh? He goes away and it goes to shit.”

“Coatecas Altas is miles from here,” Mac hedged, doubtful. “You really think El Noche’s influence in this region spreads that far?”

“Only one way to find out,” Jack responded, then pressed his comm. “Matty, you got your ears on?”

There was a significant pause. Jack exchanged a look with MacGyver, then tried again, risking a slightly louder whisper.

 _“We’re here, Jack,”_ Riley’s voice came across their comms, causing both men to jump. She sounded half asleep and Jack couldn’t blame her, remembering belatedly that it wasn’t quite four in the morning in L.A. She’d probably drawn the short straw of monitoring their comms all night.

“We are going over the wall,” Jack informed her.

_“Is that smart?”_

“No,” Mac replied. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

“Keep the mic hot,” Jack instructed. “And find Matty and Bozer.”

If this thing went sideways, he did _not_ want Riley in the War Room alone.

_“You got it.”_

Using hand signals, Jack motioned Mac further down the wall where it met up with an Ahuehuete tree’s rambling branches. Silently, they climbed the tree, slipping over the wall and dropping down to the other side in the shadows of the security lights. Acutely aware of the possibility of motion-sensor lights, they hugged the length of the wall until they reached the side of the large box truck.

The truck did indeed have a faded image of a rollercoaster on the side, with the three-headed dog standing guard over the tracks. They moved along the side of the truck to the back. Jack shouldered his rifle and stood behind Mac, his head on a swivel, as Mac reached for the latch that kept the sliding door locked down.

Every fiber of Jack’s being shouted that there was something wrong—it was too easy, too quiet. But he controlled his breathing and kept his eyes open as he heard the door start to slide open. It wasn’t until he heard Mac’s mumbled, _shit_ , that he turned, part of him afraid they’d waited too long and the truck was actually going to be filled with _dead_ human contraband.

What met his eyes, however, wasn’t the bodies of innocent women, but lots and lots and lots of drugs—packaged tightly and stacked high—guarded by four men with machine guns.

“Hola, fellas,” Jack grinned, sweat breaking out on the back of his neck.

“ _Apoyo_ ,” the largest of the four men barked. Mac began to back up, toward Jack, as though obeying a command. “ _Baja tu arma_.”

“He wants you to put your gun down,” Mac translated in a low hiss over his shoulder toward Jack.

“He could want me to grow wings and fly but that ain’t happening either,” Jack returned, keeping his rifle aimed center mass of the big man. “We are going to back away real slow, you hearing me?”

“Not sure they’re gonna let that happen, Jack.”

“ _No te muevas_!”

“He doesn’t want us to move,” Mac said out of the side of his mouth.

Jack held his body still and shifted his eyes to the side, checking for exits. Off to the side of the seemingly deserted main building, he saw a small adobe building that resembled a garage within running distance. If they weren’t ventilated by bullet holes first, that is.

“Mac, when I say _now_ , I want you to turn and run for that garage just to the west of us. Copy?”

“Copy.”

“ _Baja tu arma y no te dispararemos_ —“

“Now!”

He had to hand it to the kid, Mac was wicked fast when he wanted to be. Jack got three shots off, felling three men, just as Mac cleared his side and was in a full-on sprint for the garage. Jack shot at the fourth man, but missed, hitting the man’s gun instead and knocking it from his grip. They reached the building at the same time, their collective thrust and body mass crashing through the locked door.

Shutting it solidly behind them, they separated, Mac looking for something to use to defend themselves, Jack dragging a heavy table in front of the door. The building was spacious but crowded with empty shelves, dusty work benches, and three cars covered by stained, canvas tarps. Dawn lit the interior with a dusky grey light, giving Jack the feeling he was squinting through shadows.

“The window!” Mac shouted.

Jack tugged the cover off of what looked like a ’67 Chevy and flung it over the window just as a smattering of bullets shattered the glass. They ducked as one, protecting their heads.

“Tell me there’s stuff in here you can MacGyver into a bomb or a rocket launcher or something.”

“How many people you think are out there?” Mac replied, straightening up and resuming his ransacking of a sparsely-stocked work bench.

Before Jack could answer, another hail of bullets cut through the walls, pinging off of the Chevy, burying themselves in the ground. Jack gasped as one tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, barely missing his arm, and looked wildly over at Mac to make sure he was still in one piece.

Seemingly unfazed by the latest assault, Mac was gathering what looked like jumper cables and a roll of copper wire. He turned just as another shot crashed through what was left of the window and Jack saw him jerk to the side, spinning and falling hard as something struck him.

“Mac!”

Leaving the shelter of the Chevy, Jack sprinted forward to his partner’s side, his stomach dropping when he saw blood covering half of MacGyver’s forehead and spilling down into his left eye.

“’m okay,” Mac mumbled, reaching for Jack, and using the other man’s grip to pull himself to sitting position. “Just grazed me.”

“Can you see okay?”

“Depends on what you want me to look at,” Mac replied, one side of his mouth pulled up into a small, shaky grin.

Jack swallowed. They needed to get out of there, call in the strike, finish the mission. He pulled off his scarf and pressed a balled-up section against the long slice across Mac’s forehead. The younger man hissed and instinctively pulled back, but not away.

“Must be reloading,” Jack commented when the firing paused.

“’s getting light outside,” Mac informed him, squinting past the curtain of the scarf against his head. “Maybe they’re regrouping…since their ambush didn’t work out quite like they’d planned.”

“Maybe they think we brought an army with us.”

 _“You did,”_ came a voice in his ear.

“Hey, Matty,” Jack smiled, shifting the placement of the scarf against Mac’s head so that he could better see his partner’s face. “Good to hear your voice.”

 _“You were supposed to call the strike in from_ outside _of the compound,”_ Matty reminded him.

Mac grunted as he moved to his knees, easing the now-blood-covered scarf away from his head. “You wanted evidence of human trafficking,” Mac told her, grimacing with pain, “and we weren’t going to call in a strike if there were people in that truck.”

Voices shouted from outside of the building—the Spanish too rapid for even Mac to follow based on his frown.

“Okay, look,” Mac started, reaching for the copper wire he’d dropped when he was hit. “I think I can use one of these cars to rig up—“

He didn’t get a chance to finish his thought as the front of the building was suddenly peppered with rounds, some tearing through holes already made, plaster and mortar projectiles perforating the front of the Chevy.

“Son of a _bitch_!” Jack shouted, gathering Mac up against him as he plowed forward, using his body as a shield as he moved away from the firing, running them both in a low crouch to the furthest tarp-covered car. “What’d they get, a Gatling gun?”

He could hear Matty’s voice in his ear, tinny and far away as she demanded a sitrep. Mac was shouting something about getting out through the back of the garage.

The bullets-on-adobe chaos filled Jack’s head. Luckily, after so many battles and so many missions, in situations like this his body worked like something separate from him—running itself perfectly with no need for input.

The barrage of bullets slowed and Mac stumbled, Jack’s hands at the kid’s waist propelling him forward ahead of him. As the firing paused, Jack let go of Mac and turned, his rifle already in his hands. He heard a crash and darted a look over to where Mac had wavered and fallen against a shelf, his hand pressed to the cut across his forehead.

“Mac?”

“’m okay,” he replied breathlessly. “Just…just dizzy.”

In the pause of bullets, Jack heard the screech of twisting metal as the nearly-destroyed door began to open.

“Get behind me, get behind me!” He shouted to Mac and began firing.

The first two men through the door landed in a heap, Jack’s bullets finding their targets with ease. The next one started firing before he moved through the door, but Jack took him down, too. Another came at the window and Jack forgot where his body ended and his weapon began. He lost track of his partner, of his environment, of his need for shelter—he simply saw a target and fired.

He was so zoned in on preventing the men from getting to them that he nearly elbowed Mac in the face when the younger man grabbed at his arm in a desperate bid to get his attention.

“Jack, come _on_!” Mac shouted—and it occurred to Jack that the younger man had been shouting his name for several minutes.

He moved backwards, Mac’s hand on his shoulder guiding him as he kept an eye on the shattered entrance to the garage.

“I found a way out,” Mac was saying. “There’s a storehouse about twenty feet to the south. It’s concrete, not adobe.”

“Better shelter,” Jack stated, finding the wisdom in Mac’s retreat.

“And it backs up to the external wall,” Mac elaborated.

Now that he knew where they were going, he turned and ran with Mac, the pair of them once more slamming their shoulders against the side door and sprinting for the next shelter. He could hear Matty demanding they get the hell out of there—which, no shit, thanks for the tip, boss—but he didn’t have breath to spare in answering her. He just ran, Mac matching him stride for stride as they headed to relative safety.

He never heard the shot.

It slammed into his leg like a sledgehammer, knocking him sideways and sending him careening against the side of the concrete building. Mac reached out blindly and grabbed his TAC vest, pulling him through the opened door and shoving him forward, then closing and bolting the door.

The minute they were inside the storehouse, Jack knew he was in trouble. His leg burned, the blood pouring from his wound like liquid fire. Too much blood, flowing too fast.

He couldn’t catch his breath—the wound itself wasn’t even painful yet, but his whole body felt hollowed out from the shock of impact. He stumbled backwards against a metal shelf as Mac found the lights, his partner’s quick mind already leagues ahead in figuring a way out of this latest predicament.

Jack’s thoughts slowed as his leg weakened, his body starting to shiver even before he slumped to the floor.

“M-mac…,” he stuttered, “think I gotta…gotta lil’ problem here.”

He couldn’t seem to release his rifle, his gloved hand fumbling for his leg. The minute he touched the wound, fire rushed through him and he cried out helplessly.

“Oh, shit… _shit_ , Jack.”

He hadn’t even seen Mac move. One minute the kid was across the room looking through the bottles and boxes on the storehouse shelves, the next he was beside him, pressing both hands against the wound on Jack’s thigh.

Time was skipping on him; he couldn’t quite keep Mac in focus.

“’s bleedin’ a helluva lot,” Jack slurred.

“I think it hit your femoral artery,” Mac replied, a savage twist on the last word. “Matty, we need an evac _now_.”

 _“I can’t get to you inside the compound, Mac,”_ Matty reminded them, her voice brittle with worry. _“You have to get to the exfil!”_

“That’s over a mile away, Matty!”

Mac pressed harder on Jack’s wound, his head dropping forward as Jack cried out. Pain seemed to turn the air around them silver, shimmering with a surreal light that wrapped around Mac as Jack fought to keep his eyes open.

 _“They’ll wait for you,”_ Matty promised.

Jack felt his body shiver from the inside out. It was almost as though his heart were shaking. He reached up a blood-covered hand and grabbed Mac’s shirt sleeve, curling the material in his fist and bringing his partner’s gaze to his.

“You g-got this, bud.”

Mac’s blue eyes seemed to stand out like neon in the dim lighting from the overhead bulbs in the storehouse. Blood turned his blond hair to rust and gathered in the creases of his eyelids. For one heartbeat, they stared at each other and Jack felt his world tip sideways as though every promise he’d ever made to Mac was sliding into an empty void.

“You got this,” he whispered again, his breath trembling across the sound as his body shook.

Without another word, Mac ripped open the hole in Jack’s pants until the wound was exposed.

“This is going to hurt.” Mac’s voice was grim, tight.

Those five words were the only warning Jack got before his partner turned his leg inside out. Or at least that’s what it felt like. Mac plunged two fingers into the hole in Jack’s leg, dexterously finding the damaged artery and squeezing it closed.

Jack screamed—the sound ripping from him as though someone reached down his throat and yanked it upward from his gut. All rational thought flatlined and his vision went white.

“God, stop stop stop _stop_ —sonofa _bitch_!”

He didn’t realize he was speaking until he felt Mac’s hand on the side of his face, the contact of the kid’s warm palm against his cold skin drawing Jack back from a precipice of darkness.

“I’m sorry, man, I’m _so_ sorry but if I don’t do this you’ll bleed out,” Mac was saying, his voice rough, trembling.

Jack panted, thirsty for air, blinking a combination of tears and sweat from his eyes. Mac was leaning over him, one hand in his wound, the other at his face, his eyes bloodshot and tears leaving twin trails through the dirt and dried blood on his face. Jack reached up, his hand visibly shaking, and gripped Mac’s wrist, nodding shakily.

He didn’t trust his voice.

“Are you with me?” Mac asked, and Jack whimpered at how young he sounded. Young and scared and pissed off. “Jack?”

He nodded again, swallowing convulsively as his stomach rebelled from the pain. He would _not_ get sick, not now. There was a noise in his head, a voice both commanding and compassionate, but he couldn’t make out the words. It took him a minute to realize that the voice was coming from his comms—that Matty and the team in the War Room were hearing every word they said.

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time, okay?” Mac said, his thumb pressing gently against Jack’s cheekbone, grabbing his straying attention. “I know you’re hurting, but…I gotta do one more thing, okay?”

“D-do…do I want…t-to know?” Jack managed, his voice to shaking in time with his trembling body.

“Probably not,” Mac said. “You trust me, right?”

“Al-always,” Jack said, gripping Mac’s wrist tight, feeling the narrow bones there shift beneath his fingers.

Mac nodded and Jack watched as the kid straightened up, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, then managed to eject a bullet from Jack’s rifle with one hand and the crook of his opposite arm, never once removing his fingers from Jack’s wound. He bent to the side and Jack lost sight of what he was doing; it was all Jack could do to keep from sobbing from pain. He could hear himself groaning through gritted teeth, but figured he was allowed that much at least.

After all, his partner literally had a hand inside his body keeping him alive.

“Hold on, Jack,” Mac ordered—pleaded. “Don’t you give up on me, man. You just…you just keep your eyes on me, got it? I’m getting you outta here, I swear to God.”

Jack could hear the tremble in his partner’s voice. “This is s-some Butch and S-sundance shit, right h-here,” he offered, trying to ground Mac.

“Butch and Sundance died, Jack,” Mac countered, tearing at something with his teeth that Jack couldn’t see. “We’re not dying today.”

Jack suddenly felt the wound in his leg flare up, a liquid pain crashing his system so that his ears were buzzing, his vision slipping.

“Okay, hang onto me,” Mac said. “This is… _really_ gonna hurt.”

Jack saw the flicker of a flame and then his world became agony. He screamed his throat raw. He felt himself shake, falling down a hole, tumbling until there was nothing.

Silence.

Peace.

And that was all kinds of wrong.

Where was Mac? Panic wrapped around him like bands.

“…your eyes, Jack!”

 _There_. Something in his chest loosened when he found that voice.

“C’mon, man. I need you here. I need you to stay strong, okay?”

He could hear the tears in Mac’s voice. He could hear the hammering sound of his own breath. He could hear the rush of his own pulse in his ear. He could hear Matty demanding he answer her.

“’m here,” he rasped, forcing his eyes open. “’m here, bud.”

Mac sagged forward, bending over Jack as though someone had cut his strings. Jack realized suddenly that Mac had both hands on his face.

“What’d ya do?”

Mac swallowed. “I kinda…cauterized your leg. With…uh, with gun powder.”

“Holy shit.” Jack blinked. His leg was on fire, throbbing up through his hip and into his teeth. “Thanks.”

_“You need to move, Mac.”_

It was then Jack realized there had been a semi-constant back-beat of noise outside the storehouse—centered mainly on the bolted door. It was growing louder and Jack could see sparks from the corner of his eyes. They were cutting through the deadbolt to get inside.

“That our only way out?” he asked.

He felt like he was floating, slipping between worlds. His hands were weightless as they reached for Mac as the younger man sat back.

“Depends,” Mac said, using his own scarf to wrap up Jack’s leg tight enough to act as both a bandage and a brace.

 _“On what?”_ This from Matty.

Jack scoffed. Like she had reason to doubt any thought Mac might have in that ginormous brain of his.

“On if I can blow a hole through a cement wall before they get in here.”

 _“Get to it, then.”_ Riley. Sounding rough.

“You okay, Ri?” Jack asked, hearing the slow drawl of his words.

Man, he was wrecked.

He couldn’t decide if he needed a drink, twelve hours of sleep, or a hug. Hell, what he probably needed was a shit-ton of blood, but he wasn’t getting that sitting in El Noche’s storehouse. It took him a minute to realize he’d lost track of Mac.

 _“…’m okay, just need you back here,”_ Riley was saying. Because of course. She’d heard it all.

 _“Sitrep, Mac,”_ Matty demanded.

Jack looked around, trying to track the crashing noise he was hearing in the storehouse and separate it from the shouting and clanging from outside.

“Gimme a minute, Matty,” Mac replied. His voice didn’t sound quite right. Jack couldn’t place it, but…something was definitely wrong.

Hell…, maybe it was his ears. They wouldn’t stop hissing.

_“Jack?”_

“Still here,” Jack told her, shoving slowly upright, his head spinning with the change in elevation.

He saw Mac crouch down on the opposite side of the storehouse, several bottles in his hands, and something that looked like a shop towel sticking out of one. He could tell the kid was mixing several liquids into the bottle with the rag in it, but he’d be damned if he could figure out what they were.

_“Talk to me, Blondie.”_

“Okay, I uh…I f-found some containers of gasoline—looks like the type that has a high concentration of nitro-methane,” Mac was saying, his voice steadying as he continued.

Jack knew it was usually about now that the team cut Mac off and asked him to, essentially, use smaller words, but something told him the science was the only thing keeping the kid focused at the moment. And apparently Matty recognized that as well, because she didn’t interrupt him.

“I’m mixing it with ammonium nitrate,” Mac shot a look over his shoulder, meeting Jack’s eyes. Jack blinked hard, trying to keep Mac in focus. “And if this works, it’s going to be loud. I can’t guarantee it won’t blow out our comms. You got that exfil on the move, Matty?”

_“They’ll be there, Mac.”_

Mac nodded once at Jack. “You ready?”

“’m with you ‘til the end of the line, bud,” Jack replied, knowing the quote would bring a smile to Mac’s tense face.

Mac lit the rag, then ran back to Jack, curling over the other man just as the liquid exploded, rocking the storehouse and bringing shelves down around them. One fell across Mac’s back and the younger man grunted with the impact, keeping his arms wrapped around Jack’s head and shoulders until the dust settled.

Coughing, Mac shoved upright, pushing the metal shelf off of his back. It was silent outside the front of the storehouse and Jack knew they had about a two-minute window to get out. He reached for Mac’s shoulders.

“I’m good,” he declared, ignoring the heat in his leg. “I got this.”

Mac nodded, his face streaked with dust and fresh blood making an appearance along his hairline, probably from the impact of the shelf. He grabbed Jack around the chest, lifting him to his feet, and half pulled, half dragged him forward. Jack nearly bit through his lip to keep from crying out as his leg protested.  

“Matty?” Mac called, coughing through the dust and debris. “Riley? Bozer?”

Their comms were silent; the explosion had scrambled them as Mac had suspected. They breached the cement wall and Jack realized the explosion had punched through the outer wall as well. Mac dragged him outside of the compound just as two men broke through the door of the storehouse.

The rugged terrain outside the wall of the compound where they’d made their escape offered several outcroppings of mountainside to duck behind and Mac chose the closest one to set Jack down as he turned to face the two men charging through the wall toward them. Jack gripped the top of his thigh, trying to choke off the echo of pain as he kept his eyes on Mac, watching as the kid fought like a tiger.

One man grabbed Mac from behind; Mac used the man’s body as leverage to lift his feet and kick the other man unconscious, twisting lithely out of the first man’s grip. He got in several hits, ducking and weaving out of the reach of the man’s long reach as a third man joined the fray. The third man was a big guy—he slammed his meaty fist against Mac’s kidneys twice, causing Jack to wince as the young agent’s head snapped back when he arched away from the hit.

The fight continued with Mac drawing on every bit of training the Army, the Phoenix Foundation, and Jack had instilled in him.

He dodged, he struck, and he rolled as he took a hit. Jack could see his knuckles red with his or another’s blood, it was unclear. A welt was rising under one eye, his lip was split and bleeding, and he was gasping for air as he moved, keeping the men focused on him and not Jack. Mac was good, but he was wounded and rattled and, _dammit_ , Jack could do nothing to help.

Until he remembered he still had his sidearm.

Pulling the weapon free with trembling hands, he sighted on the bigger of Mac’s two assailants and fired, taking the man down with one shot. Mac took advantage of the distraction and landed two solid punches on the remaining man, knocking him out. He turned to Jack before another one of El Noche’s men could climb through the rubble, panting hard, blood on his cheekbone and lip.

“Goo’ job,” Jack said, dismayed to hear the words slur together.

Mac’s face paled at the sound.

“C’mon, man,” he gasped, pulling Jack to his feet. “I need you to give me everything you’ve got.”

Jack tried, he really did. But his leg was useless. He could put no weight on it and the pain seemed to flicker around him like a living thing, stroking him with greedy fingers. He held on to Mac, but as strong as he was, Mac’s smaller frame was beat to hell and he stumbled over the rocks and brush on the path.

Jack cried out when Mac went to one knee, bringing him along.

“You can do this, man,” Mac wheezed, turning and putting a slim shoulder into Jack’s midsection, growling low in his throat as he heaved Jack across his shoulders and back, then pushed to his feet. “You’re the goddamn toughest man I know.”

They reached an area of sloped terrain and Mac gripped Jack’s good leg tighter, his breath an audible punch of sound as he fought to keep them balanced. Jack could feel the kid trembling beneath him, knowing his weight was all-but crushing Mac.

“Least…least they didn’t…b-blow up…the place with us…in it,” Jack gasped as Mac’s shoulder dug into his ribs with every step.

“Shit,” Mac gasped, skidding and slipping down a small slope. “They’re gonna just keep comin’ for us, aren’t they?”

“We’ll get ‘em,” Jack promised, groaning as Mac slid further, going to his hands and knees, Jack landing on Mac’s back, then rolling free. “We’ll get ‘em, bud.”

Mac was shaking his head, though, his face flushed with exertion. He checked Jack’s bandage; satisfied with what he saw there, he grabbed Jack under his arms and helped him sit up again.

“Need you to stand,” he panted.

“Don’…don’t know ‘f I can,” Jack managed.

“Gotta carry you,” Mac groaned, trying to lift Jack up, a frustrated growl echoing against the rock outcropping when he couldn’t get him much higher than his knees.  “Can’t drag you, it’ll open your wound.... _Please_ , man.”

Jack nodded. He was starting to get hazy from blood loss and shivering from pain, but even through that he saw that Mac was nearing his limit. He gripped the younger man’s shirt, groaning as he was pulled to his feet, then held still as Mac lifted him once more across his shoulders.

Mac staggered, gasping from the weight. Jack couldn’t tell which of them was shaking. Maybe they both were.

Mac plodded forward, each step sending out a burst of air. Jack bit his lip until it bled to keep from whimpering out loud.

“Agent MacGyver!”

Jack felt Mac flinch beneath him. He couldn’t see who was approaching, but they were speaking English, so that was a plus. He curled his fist tighter into Mac’s shirt.

“Matilda Webber sent us,” continued the voice, lowering as it got closer. “Said you might need some help.”

“You from our exfil?” Mac asked, his voice thin, but commanding.

“We are,” replied another voice. “Check phrase is prison break.”

“Help me,” Mac said, half-turning until Jack could see the legs of two men clad in flight suits.

He felt himself lifted from Mac’s shoulders and cradled carefully between the two men. He blinked, trying to find Mac, bring him into focus. The world was slipping behind a gauzy film, his breath rasping through dry lips, and he was pretty sure his leg was literally on fire.

He groaned helplessly as the men holding him adjusted their grip.

“Be careful of his wound,” Mac said. Jack found him then; he was leaning over, hands on knees, catching his breath. “I had to cauterize the femoral artery. He’s going to need surgery ASAP or he could lose that leg.”

“Mac?” Jack reached out from the human hammock he was being held in. He needed to get eyes on the kid, make sure he was in one piece.

He wasn’t so far gone to not know that his partner had been rattled plenty by that bullet to the noggin. But Mac was backing away. Wait…what the hell was going on?

“Mac!”

“They’re going to just keep coming, Jack,” Mac said, pulling a deep breath in through his nose, straightening up. “I gotta go back.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jack tried to sit forward but was held fast by one of the pilots. “Get your ass back here!”

He struggled for another second but his movement pulled at his leg and he felt himself spin, the world tilting sideways and stealing his breath with the motion. He couldn’t focus on any one thing, his ears buzzing, his mouth wet with pain.

“Cerberus, Jack,” Mac called back to him. “Find me at Cerberus!”

“Agent Dalton, we gotta go,” said the man holding his legs told him.

He couldn’t reply. Mac was gone. Finishing the goddamn mission. With no one watching his back.

“What did he just say?” Jack rasped, pain radiating through him with each step the men carrying him took. “What…?”

“You’re gonna be okay, Agent Dalton,” the same man told him, and in the next moment, he saw the green skin of a helicopter out of the corner of his eye.

He felt himself lifted into the chopper and closed his eyes as the movement sent his vision spinning again. Time seemed to slip and he was dimly aware of his body buckled onto a backboard, his leg elevated, and something—presumably an IV—pricking his arm. The sensation of flight brought him around once more and he tried to ask about Mac, but his mouth wasn’t working right.

All that escaped was a low groan.

“We need to hustle,” a voice said next to him, but clearly not talking to him. “His pressure is bottoming out.”

“Roger that.”

Jack felt the _whomp-whomp_ of the blades vibrating through his back and he shifted his head, looking for that voice next to him, needing to find Mac, when he heard the pilot call back to them.

“Brace him—airstrike called in and we’re gonna feel the blast.”

Airstrike. The compound.

“Mac—“

The chopper rocked, pressing Jack against his restraints and darkness swept over him like a wave.

* * *

**The Phoenix Foundation medical wing**

**2 days since exfil**

_-Still Jack-_

Jack Dalton open his eyes to light.

And the sound of furious whispers.

People were talking around him, over him, next to him. Their voices were hushed and strained, but there were so many of them they blended into chaos. He didn’t have to know what they were saying to know it was bad.

He knew the world had changed even before he remembered how. The air tasted different—sharp and strange with a bite at the edges. He knew before he made a sound that he didn’t want to, because the minute he did, whatever it was that caused the thickness in Riley’s whisper, the strain in Bozer’s reply, and the crack in Matty’s sigh…would be real.

And he would have to face it.

“Hey,” he croaked, blinking as several pairs of eyes turned his way—two of them people he didn’t know but, gauging by their scrubs, were medical personnel of some kind.

“Jack,” Riley breathed, the exhale hitching and catching on a sob.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiled, licking his dry lips.

Riley eased a plastic cup with a straw over toward him, helping him drink until he lay back, nodding his thanks. She reached for his hand and he wrapped his fingers around hers, feeling how fragile those bones were. He frowned at her.

She looked hollowed-out and starving, like she was made up of nothing but bones and teeth. And old. Way older than she really was.

“How are you feeling, Agent Dalton?” asked the male version of Scrubs standing on one side of his bed.

Female version was checking something on a machine next to him.

“Floaty,” he replied honestly, his eyes skimming the others in the room.

Bozer stood at the foot of his bed, arms crossed over his chest, eyes down. Matty stood next to Riley, a hand on the bed near Jack’s leg.

“That’d be the drugs,” the man told him. “I’m Dr. Banner.”

“No shit?” Jack grinned in spite of himself. “Better not make you angry.”

Banner smiled patiently.

“Guess you’ve heard that one before,” Jack muttered.

“Let’s worry about you first. Can you tell us what happened?”

Jack nodded. “Sure, but…Mac was the real hero. He’d give you a better story.”

“I want to hear what _you_ remember,” Banner told him. “You lost a lot of blood; this’ll help me see what that did to your cognitive abilities.”

Right. His leg. He glanced down, making sure it was still there, then ran his free hand—Riley still holding the other one tightly—down to a heavy bandage weighing down his thigh.

“I got shot,” he whispered. His mind was skipping, images sliding across his vision from time past—Kabul, Farah, Argentina, Canada, Mexico. They weren’t time-stamped in the right order. They weren’t relevant to _now_ , but they all involved the same thing: MacGyver saving his life. “Mac…patched me up.”

“He did a tremendous job, considering what he had to work with,” Banner replied. “He was able to circumvent hypovolemic shock, but you still lost about a liter, required several transfusions, a bolus of antibiotics, and muscle and tissue repair. Your artery is intact and you should make a complete recovery—provided you follow instructions.”

“Don’t worry, Doc,” Jack grinned. “All the work he did to get me outta there, I doubt my boy’s gonna let me skip on any PT.”

Banner looked down. “Agent Dalton, can you tell us what you remember about the exfil?”

“Mac blew out the wall,” Jack replied, starting to feel oddly cold. He looked at Riley, then Matty. Both women were looking into a middle distance, seeing something that painted lines of pain on their faces and made his chest feel hollow. “He…uh…he carried me—“

He could feel Mac’s narrow shoulder digging into his sternum, the way his body shook from the strain of bearing Jack’s weight.

“…but a couple guys jumped us.” He swallowed, squinting against the bright lights in the ceiling, trying to catch Bozer’s eye. “Mac fought two off; I shot one.”

Something was wrong. _Really_ wrong. Mac wasn’t in the room, next to his bed, waiting for him to wake up, giving him hell for scaring him to death.

“How bad?” Jack asked, looking over at Banner.

“What’s that?” Banner frowned. He’d been writing on Jack’s chart as Jack spoke.

“How bad’s he hurt, Doc? My partner isn’t here, and he was pretty beat up last I saw him, so…. How bad?”

“Jack—“ Bozer started, but the strain in his voice broke the word.

“Do you remember seeing Agent MacGyver after you got into the helicopter?” Banner asked.

Jack frowned. Had Mac been on the helicopter? He couldn’t…he remembered being carried. He remembered voices and pain and darkness. Mac _must_ have been there with him. Right?

“I can’t…I don’t….” He wasn’t breathing quite right. He looked at Matty. “What’s going on?”

There was a silence that stretched on for a millennia and in that quiet Jack heard his heart scream in panic.

“Mac’s dead, Jack,” Bozer managed, his voice slipping out as though through a sieve.

Jack felt a punch of air leave him. He stared at Bozer, the words the man had let loose in the world losing meaning the longer the silence stretched out. He shook his head slowly.

“No…no, that ain’t…he can’t be.” He couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He could hear it rasping through his opened mouth, competing with the slam of his pulse. He curled his fingers into a fist, gripping his blanket, trying to anchor himself.

“Agent Dalton,” Banner drew his attention again. “Just breathe easy. You’re still recovering from major surgery. Two days is hardly enough time to—“

“Wait, what?” Jack barked. He looked over at Matty again. “How long have I been here?”

Riley released his hand, covering her mouth to keep her emotions in check. Bozer was looking down at the ground again.

“Matilda.” Jack pushed himself up in the bed so that he was no longer leaning back against the pillows. The nurse at his side eased the top part of the bed up as a support. “Talk to me.”

Matty swallowed and lifted calm eyes to his. “At 0800, the exfil team reported spotting Agent MacGyver carrying you through one of the narrow passes between the compound and the exfil point. Agent MacGyver passed you over to them and left, presumably to return to the compound and call in the air strike. At 0815 the target was painted. At 0818, the compound was hit.”

Jack took in the information, waiting for the punchline. “You went back for him,” he said. “ _Tell me_ you went back for him.”

“A recon team returned to the compound twenty-four hours later—“

“ _Twenty-four hours_!”

“—where they discovered that El Noche’s cell had been obliterated. There were no survivors.”

“Just because he painted the target doesn’t mean—“

“Mac’s DNA was found in the rubble,” Matty said, her voice softening for the first time since she started speaking.

“His…his DNA?”

Bozer turned and pulled a piece of material out of a familiar brown knapsack— _Mac’s_ knapsack. He handed it to Jack. It was torn and burned, but Jack recognized it as the scarf he’d used to staunch the blood flow from Mac’s head wound. He could see a brownish stain still visible.

“He got…a b-bullet graze,” Jack said, rubbing the material between his fingers. “Across the forehead. I used this to, uh…to stop the bleeding.”

“I’m so sorry, Jack,” Matty whispered.

“How long, Matty?”

“Jack, we had crews over the whole blast site. There’s no other—“

“How. Long.” He shot a glance at her, fire in his eyes, heating his whole body.

They’d left him. They’d waited too long and they’d _left him_. His anger was a living thing. He felt like he could burn this building to the ground with the force of his rage.

“Two days,” she replied.

“It took you two whole days to give up on him, huh?”

“There was nothing left—we were lucky to find that,” she pointed at the scarf.

“He’s not dead,” Jack shook his head, staring at the brown stain.

“I didn’t want to believe it either, Jack—“

Jack looked at Bozer. “Then don’t. You’ve known him longer than any of us. He’s a _survivor_ , man. He wouldn’t…he wouldn’t go in if he….”

Words crammed together in head, Mac’s voice stitching them together.

_I should have stayed and kept trying._

_Do you know what I can do in fifteen seconds, Jack?_

_I don’t know what to do with this…hole. Inside me._

“Jack,” Matty tried again. “He saved you. He finished the mission. He was a hero.”

“He _is_ a hero, Matty,” Jack corrected, tightening his fist around the scarf. “He’s not dead.”

There were too many people around him. Too many of the wrong people. They all cared about him but it didn’t matter because none of them were Mac.

He couldn’t breathe. There were too many people and _he couldn’t breathe_.

“Tell us what you remember, Agent Dalton,” Banner pressed. “What happened between the time MacGyver pulled you from the compound and you getting on the helicopter?”

Jack’s head pounded; he closed his eyes, replaying that morning, seeing Mac’s dirty, blood-streaked face, his tears, his fight with El Noche’s men. He remembered feeling weightless, feeling anxious, but he couldn’t remember Mac leaving him, and he couldn’t— _wouldn’t_ —believe Mac was gone. He’d know.

He’d _know_ if Mac was dead.

“Comms?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“They cut out,” Riley told him, openly crying. “We heard…we heard you get shot. We heard Mac patching you up, bringing you back.”

“God, he sounded…,” Bozer sniffed, wiping his face with the flat of his hand. “I’d never heard his voice sound like that, man. He was desperate. There was _no way_ he was going to lose you.”

“The comms cut out when Mac blew the wall,” Matty told him. “We weren’t able to pick up a signal.” She leaned forward, pressing down on the mattress. “We tried everything, Jack.”

“For _two days_ , Matty,” Jack replied, his tone holding enough sharp edges it should have sliced her.

“We were hoping you would be able to give us something to work from,” Matty said, turning it back on him.

Jack rubbed his head, trying to remember. There was something…it was mostly pain and chaos and chopper blades and burning. But there was _something_.

The room stayed silent, waiting. Eventually, Jack looked up, his eyes wet, a tear painting a track of frustration through the salt-and-pepper scruff framing his jaw.

“He’s not dead,” Jack repeated. “I’d know it, Matty.”

Matty frowned, the sadness in her eyes palpable. “I can’t find an agent based solely on a gut feeling, Jack.”

“He’s not…,” Jack caught his breath, a sob building in his chest. “Don’t give up on him, Matty. He’s not dead.”

_I’m not losing anyone else, Jack._

_They’re going to just keep coming._

_I need you here. I need you to stay strong, okay?_

“He wouldn’t do that to me,” Jack whispered, tears hot against his face.

“The Phoenix Foundation will be having a memorial for him this weekend,” Matty said, clearing the emotion from her voice. “Since he was never able to find his dad…we’re pretty much his only family.”

“Penny Parker,” Bozer said in a choked voice. “She’ll want to know.”

“What about anyone from MIT?” Riley interjected. “Anyone know if he has friends from there?”

“There might have been a list—“

“Stop it!” Jack shouted, cutting Bozer off and making them all jump. “All of you just _shut up_. I am not going to sit here and listen to you planning the guy’s funeral when _he’s not dead_.”

“Jack—“ Matty started.

“No, Matty,” Jack shook his head, pointing at her with the stained scarf wrapped around his hand. “You gave up. You _gave up_ on him. But I’m not going to. I promised. I _promised him_ that he wouldn’t be alone anymore and there is no fucking way I am willing to accept he died out there all by himself!”

“Agent Dalton, you need to calm—“

Jack whipped his head over to Dr. Banner. “Do _not_ tell me to calm down, Doc. I feel fucking fabulous.”

“That’s thanks to the pain meds,” Banner told him, nodding to the nurse at his left. “You need your rest to continue to build up your platelet count.”

“Bullshit,” Jack started to pull the blanket covering his bandaged leg aside—purposely ignoring the fact that he couldn’t actually _feel_ his legs at the moment. “I’m getting out of here and going to find my partner.”

Banner leaned over him, pressing him gently back into the bed. “Agent Dalton, please. We will need to sedate you if you do not calm down.”

“Doc, you come near me with a needle, I swear to God I’ll break it off,” Jack growled, causing Banner’s eyes to widen slightly. “My partner is out there somewhere—and he’s hurt and he’s alone and he thinks we’ve abandoned him _because we fucking have_.”

“Then where is he?” Banner asked, his voice softening. “Where, Jack?”

Jack stopped resisting Banner’s restraining hands, his eyes welling with frustrated tears, his breath coming hot and fast as panic wrapped around him with the force of a tsunami. “I can’t…I can’t remember.”

“Isn’t it possible that he did just what Director Webber said?” Banner pressed in the same, soft voice. “He saved you, he finished the mission.”

“You don’t know Mac,” Jack shook his head, his body trembling. “That kid could wrestle a hurricane to the ground with a paperclip and a stick of gum. I’m serious. He’s _too_ _good_ to get hit by a missile strike that he called in.”

“Then where is he?”

Jack felt a sob building in his chest. He pulled in a breath through his nose, shifting his attention from Banner to Bozer, then to Matty and Riley.

It was on him.

If he didn’t remember, they would have a memorial and call Mac a hero and move on with their lives as though MacGyver hadn’t been a fire inside them all; as though he wasn’t a comet streaking through their existence like a white-hot trail of possibilities and miracles.

Like they all hadn’t been completely changed just for knowing he was in the world.

“I…I can’t remember,” Jack sobbed, his face folding with grief. “I don’t know where he is.”

Banner released him, allowing him to sink back against the pillows, one hand covering his face. A moment later, Jack felt a sensation of cool liquid slip beneath his skin and looked over to see the nurse next to Banner had injected something into his IV.

“What…?”

“It’s just something to help you rest,” Banner reassured him. “Get a couple hours and you can talk to these guys some more.”

Riley picked up his hand and kissed his fingers. “Get some rest, Jack.”

Bozer gently patted his leg and wrapped his arm across Riley’s shoulder, leading her out after Dr. Banner and his nurse. Matty was the last to head toward the door.

“Matty?”

She stopped, looking at him solemnly, waiting.

“Gimme a day…let me remember,” he pleaded, his head rolling back against the pillows.

Matty nodded. “Okay, Jack.”

“I can’t leave him out there…,” Jack said slowly, blinking slowly, his tongue heavy as the sedatives took effect. “I can’t leave him….”

“You didn’t, Jack,” Matty reassured him. “You let him save you.”

Jack felt his eyelids slip closed, the drugs coursing through his system, his battered mind seeking the solace of darkness, but instead finding dreams of fire, train tracks, and angry dogs.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Today’s Spanish translations are brought to you by Google Translate. If I’ve screwed it up and the words do not mean what I think they mean, I apologize.


	2. Chapter 2

**Outside of San Jerónimo Coatlán in south-western Mexico**

**0815—El Noche Compound**

_-Mac-_

There was blood in his eye.

It stung and blurred his vision, causing him to wipe at it with the back of his hand, trying to see to tag the compound with the laser from a safe position. His back throbbed where El Noche’s man had pummeled him. His head spun from the bullet graze, and his mouth was dry from panting, his run around the compound tiring him further after carrying Jack to the exfil pick-up.

_Jack…._

He’d been so pale. Eyes sunken in with dark circles, lips edged with white, words slurring, breath rasping—Mac had seen his partner wounded before, but never this bad. It had never been this close before.

“Target painted,” Mac whispered into his small comm reserved specifically for communicating with the airstrike team. “Strike hot.”

_“Roger that, Phoenix.”_

Mac heard the low roar of the missiles only because he was listening for them. He rolled over the edge of the rock outcropping he was using as cover and curled forward into a ball, lacing his fingers behind his neck. His breath came fast, anticipation sending his heart rate into panic mode.

_Jack is out. Jack is okay. He’ll live. He’ll live. He’ll live._

The earth shook around him, causing him to cry out helplessly. The blast wave stretched out from the center of the compound and rippled across the rugged landscape, pelting Mac with rocks and debris before sending him tumbling forward—as Jack might say, ass over teakettle—crashing against a large boulder, then down a craggy slope until he landed in a gasping, bloody, dust-covered heap.

He could hear follow-on blasts and see the edges of the morning sky lit up by the fireball. He tried to rise, just to his elbows, but his head swam and a curtain of darkness slipped over him, pressing him into the ground with its weight.

* * *

Mac came aware in stuttered glimpses of the world, as though consciousness was the surface of the ocean and he was bobbing within it. The world was faded at the corners, fog-like shadows collecting at the edges of his perception and rolling toward the center. The sounds of nature—cicadas, birds, wind—splashed around him, disjointed, meaningless.

His head throbbed; his left eye wouldn’t focus and there was a strange ringing in his ear that seemed to echo off of his jaw bone. When he was finally able to open both eyes, the light around him seemed unchanged. For a moment, he thought he’d only been out for a few minutes.

As he pushed upright, however, the stiffness in his back and limbs, the dryness of his throat, the cracking of blood and dirt on his skin were all indications that time had passed. Groaning low in his throat, Mac sat up, slumping forward as his head spun, and cautiously looked around.

The sun was in the wrong place.

An entire day had passed while he lay unconscious at the bottom of a hill. At least…he _hoped_ it was only a day. The dry air seemed dusted with the silver edges of twilight, the ever-present call of cicadas were just as intense. His thin frame felt ready to fold in on itself, the burden of consciousness almost too much to hold onto.

He needed to move.

Clumsily pulling the straps of his pack from his sore shoulders, he dug inside until he found his canteen, taking a long drink. He was dying to splash the water on his face and rid it of the feeling of dried blood, but until he knew when his own exfil would be—or found potable water—he needed to ration.

His thirst sated for the moment, Mac pushed inelegantly to his feet, dragging the pack behind him as he climbed cautiously back up to where he’d called in the strike. The compound was gone—nothing but a hole in the ground with small fires burning here and there. The smell of death and blood hung heavy in the air. It turned Mac’s stomach and he stumbled slightly as his head throbbed painfully in retaliation.

He had done this. Caused this.

Every person in that compound was dead. Because of him.

It didn’t matter if they were the bad guys, or if they’d been trying to kill him. Trying to kill Jack. He abhorred guns because of the unfair advantage. He refused to use them. And yet he’d perpetuated a bigger impact with one laser pointer than he’d ever cause with a weapon in his hand.

Turning swiftly to the side, Mac retched, falling to his hands and knees as his body convulsed. He coughed, dragging his sleeve across his mouth when he was finished, his split lip stinging. Moving away from the mess, he dug out his canteen again and rinsed his mouth, looking at the landscape around what was left of the compound to get his bearings.

He couldn’t stay where he was. If any of El Noche’s men were still alive—or in the vicinity—they would be returning to the compound to see if there was anything left. He knew he had to get someplace he could rig up communication with the Phoenix, but where—

“Cerberus,” he whispered, his voice rough. His memory was skipping like a scratched record, but the image of Jack being carried away from him was vivid, as was his plea to find him at Cerberus.

If he remembered correctly, Coatecas Altas was roughly four miles south, toward the sea. An eye on the sky told him it would be dark long before he reached the abandoned amusement park. He started to search through his pack.

Several MREs, a survival knife—the Swiss Army knife Jack had given him to replace his grandfather’s tucked safely in his TAC vest—a spare shirt, a standard-issue first aid kit, a compass, a small flashlight, maps of Oaxaca, waterproof matches, water sanitizing pellets, fishing line and hooks, and a desert hat. He’d packed away extra ammo in his TAC vest for Jack, thin wire—it had come in useful in Canada, so he never left on a mission without it now—and a small roll of duct tape. Just because.

Checking his gear, making sure his boots were tied up tight—no good getting snake bit in the dark before Jack could send people after him—and rubbing as much of the dirt out of his hair and off his skin as he could, he took another drink and started south toward Cerberus. The pounding in his head was relentless; every few minutes his vision blurred and he had to blink his sight clear.

His eyes scanned the Mexican landscape as he staggered in a more-or-less straight line south. He could be anywhere. Arizona, New Mexico, Nevada, Farah, Kabul, Kandahar. Dirt and brush. Ahuehuete and Joshua trees. Cacti. The quiet was unsettling.

And he couldn’t stop listening for Jack’s voice.

“Well this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” he drawled, the side of his mouth pulling up as he heard his own terrible impression of Jack’s Texas twang.

Sighing, he rolled his stiff neck. “Guess I got what I wanted, huh?” He tilted his head in thought. “I’m the one who dealt with El Noche. Not you.” He frowned, plodding forward. “You’d better be okay, Jack.”

Shadows grew as the sun slipped behind the mountains, stretching toward him and cooling the land—and his body. He knew he had to be sunburned; he wrapped his arms around himself to keep as much heat inside as much as possible. He waited until his thirst was at a peak before taking another sip of water from his canteen.

By his calculations, he had at least another twelve hours before they came for him. Enough for them to get Jack back and send another exfil for him. He needed to make the water he had last for as long as possible before he looked for alternative means of hydration.

A coyote howled. A hawk screeched. He heard something scatter to his right in the growing darkness. He paused to pull out his night scope and quickly scanned the immediate landscape. Some animal’s bright eyes reflected back at him in the dark. Swallowing he put the scope away and pulled out the small flashlight. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t done that earlier.

His head was muddled, thoughts straying through past missions, through his youth, his childhood, as though the further south he traveled, the further back in time he went. He shook his head.

That was crazy. He was thinking crazy.

He just needed to get settled, find shelter. And sleep.

He really, _really_ wanted to sleep.

Stumbling forward a bit further, his eyes caught on the scuttle of an animal scurrying under some brush and he staggered to a stop, his body wavering. Head pounding, he followed the trail of brush to a small copse of trees butting up against a rock outcropping. He made his way to the sheltered area, his only thought to sit down with something at his back.

_“You’re missing me right about now aren’t ya?”_

Jack’s voice was so real, so _close_. Mac whipped the flashlight to the side fully expecting to see the man standing there, decked out in his black tactical gear, his rifle held low and casual in his grip, just like it had been when Jack had rescued him from El Noche the first time.

But there was nothing. No Jack, no rescue.

Nothing but night and the sharp edged-shadows of a Mexican mountain range. He turned back toward the sheltered area he’d found and staggered forward.

_“Shoulda gotten on the chopper with me, you know that? Sent someone else to take care of that compound.”_

“Couldn’t do that,” Mac responded to the Jack voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. “It was my job.”

He sank down to his knees and stiffly removed his pack before twisting around and settling back against the rock, his pack next to him.

_“Not_ your _job—it was_ our _job.”_

“I had to, Jack,” he argued, letting his head fall back against the side of the mountain. “Couldn’t let them get you.”

_“Yeah, well, you better not let them get you either.”_

Mac’s eyes were heavy, weighted with pain and exhaustion. He let them close. “Keep a look out, will ya?”

Jack’s voice was silent, but that was okay. Mac was too tired to talk anyway. The flashlight slid to the ground from his lax hand and he was unconscious in minutes.

The darkness was his protector that night. Tucked up against the rocks as he was, covered with dust and dirt, he was invisible to the eyes of the cadre of men marching past him, headed in the same direction he was.

* * *

The chill of dawn woke him, his dew-covered body shivering in the pearled light of morning. He blinked slowly, his eyes heavy with a pain that lingered in his bones, his soul resigned to feeling it forever.

A hawk cried, pitching low toward the earth, the first rays of sunlight catching its wings with an almost ethereal hue. Without moving his head, Mac tracked the flight of the creature with his eyes as it cut down from its aerial surveillance and slipped down, wings folded close until at the last moment it stretched them, buoying its descent just so. The aborted scream of a field mouse reached Mac’s ears and he watched the hawk collect the creature in its talons, its wings beating the dew from the scrub grass as it ascended once more.

_“Get on up, lazybones.”_

Mac blinked, body tensing at the voice that shouldn’t be— _couldn’t be_ —here. He slowly pushed himself upright, realizing that at some point in the night he’d slipped sideways to slump across his pack. His body _hurt_ , but his head was worse. The skin around the bullet graze felt hot and tight, and he knew that wasn’t a good sign.

_“You’re gonna want to get a start on the day if you expect to get out of here in one piece.”_

“You can’t be here, Harry,” Mac rasped, his lips cracking with the motion.

_“You don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do, pal.”_

Mac twisted his head to look around, his neck seizing painfully with the motion. The terrain looked ragged and rough—with a lot more broken pieces of brush than he’d caused before collapsing for the night.

“Someone’s been here,” he whispered, pulling himself to his knees.

_“Lots of someones, by the look of those tracks.”_

The footprints of several men headed south, toward what looked like a tobacco field, two rows of the plant having been demolished, leaves crushed into the dirt. Mac made sure no one else was around, then took a drink from his nearly-empty canteen, before digging out one of his MREs.

_“What’d I teach you, pal?”_

“How to survive alone,” Mac replied, ripping the packet open with his teeth.

_“More than that.”_

Mac sighed; his head hurt too much to deal with one of his long-dead Grandfather’s lessons. “What, Harry?”

_“To pay attention. Everywhere. To everything. All the time.”_

Mac felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He shoved the MRE back into his pack and, on instinct, slide out the survival knife. Holding his breath, Mac shifted forward to his knees, then used one of the rocks jutting out from the ledge he’d leaned against to pull himself to his feet.

Just there, on the other side of the outcropping, were two armed men dressed in a hodgepodge of black military-issue clothing and civilian rags.

They seemed to be guarding the field; murmuring quietly to each other. One man leaned toward the other and lit a cigarette off of the other’s match, then settled back on his heels to exhale the smoke.

Mac pressed his back against the rock and slid down next to his pack silently. The men stood between him and his ultimate destination. And he wasn’t strong enough to take on both—even if he did have the element of surprise on his side.

He was going to have to sneak around them—but he couldn’t do so without covering his trail in some way. Thinking quickly, the pain in his head taking a back seat to the need for a plan, Mac grabbed the wire, fish hooks, waterproof matches, and extra ammo from his pack and vest. Shouldering his pack once more, he made his way as silently as possible toward the tobacco field, heading for the rows just to the right of the crushed section of plants, away from the men.

Crouching, he used his Swiss Army knife to open the bullet casings and set up his trip wire, hoping it was just a precaution. Once satisfied that his trail was covered, he stood and started to run, his long legs even less graceful than normal as the world wavered around him. The call of surprise when he was spotted was like a burst of static in the air. He ducked his head at the sound of the first bullet, trying for more speed but finding his depleted body already offering up all it had.

Something hot tugged at his side, a burn lacing the skin along his ribs. He gasped, stumbling with the impact. He could hear the rapid Spanish behind him, but didn’t bother trying to translate: it basically all ended in his death in some way.

When the trip wire triggered, Mac felt the ground shake a bit. He fell to his hands and knees in the dirt, the outside edge of the tobacco field in sight. His breath rasped through his dry throat in a low, keening sound.

Blinking, he swore he could see Jack crouched at the edge of the field, encouraging him forward. He shook his head, hard, and the image was gone, replaced by a wave a pain that swept through him until he could taste blood at the back of his throat. It took him a moment to realize that the voices behind him had silenced.

Groaning, he looked back over his shoulder; there was no sign of the two men. Hanging his head low, Mac caught his breath, his eyes on the dirt churned up between the crushed tobacco leaves. His hand curled into a fist and brought one of the leaves into its grip, his mind skipping through its database of facts.

Native Americans used tobacco as a pain reliever, he knew. The leaves were crushed into a poultice and helped alleviate pain and even some levels of infection. He grabbed a few of the leaves and pushed to his feet, making his way to the outer edge of the tobacco field and through the collection of Ahuehuete trees.

He was so thirsty his breath sounded like sandpaper against stone. He sank to his knees at the next cactus he saw, using his survival knife to avoid the spines and cut away a chunk to suck the moisture from the inside.

The sun had crested the mountains and was heating the earth rapidly. Mac pulled out the desert hat and put it on, wincing as it brushed against his bullet graze. Ignoring the lingering reminder from Harry earlier about being ever vigilant, he finished the MRE he’d attempted to start earlier that morning, knowing that it wouldn’t matter that he was aware of his surroundings if he passed out from hunger and dehydration.

Sucking on more cactus, he made it back to his feet, carrying forward. He was losing sense of time, knowing only that it was not quite mid-day…but _which_ day seemed to slip around him. He needed to get to a place to contact the Phoenix—a place Jack would know to look for him.

Unless they’d already been there and left.

In which case…he’d just have to figure out how to get himself back home.

_“You’d do it, too, wouldn’t you?”_

Bozer. Mac couldn’t hide his relief. Even if he knew the voice wasn’t real—it was all in his head—it still felt good to hear him.

“Yeah,” he answered.

_“You’d walk that skinny white ass all the way up to Los Angeles.”_

Mac chuckled. “Yeah. I mean…I don’t want to. But I’m not staying here.”

_“Oh, c’mon. It’s not that bad. I’m not saying I’d want to build a summer home here—“_

“—but the trees are actually quite lovely,” Mac said, a grin stretching his sunburned face. “I’ve seen the movie, man.”

_“Not as many time as me. Obviously.”_

“Obviously,” Mac agreed, turning toward the voice and blinking in surprise when he saw only a stretch of rugged terrain and the curving edge of the tobacco field.

_“You need to check yourself, Mac.”_

“What?” Mac blinked, looking forward once more, unable to pinpoint the direction of Bozer’s voice.

_“You’re bleeding.”_

“I’m not…,” and then he felt the burn at his side once more. He looked down, surprised to find a growing red stain soaking into his cargo pants and TAC vest.

_“You ain’t walkin’ anywhere long like that, man.”_

With awareness of the wound came pain. It snapped through him like a whip, stealing his breath. He put his hand to his side and felt a tear in his shirt, damp with blood. Wavering on his feet, he looked up and around, seeing nothing around him but tobacco fields, mountains, rocks, rugged trees…and a creek.

He blinked, rubbing at his eyes with the back of one hand. No, it wasn’t a mirage.

That was actually water.

Mac stumbled forward, skidding to a stop and falling to his knees near a sapling at the edge of the creek. It was free-flowing and clear, but he knew enough to stop himself from plunging his face in and drinking his fill.

The last thing he needed was to die from dehydration after falling victim to a water parasite.

With only the cicadas to keep him company, Mac emptied his pack, wincing as the motion pulled at his side. The only container he had for water was his canteen and any MRE packets he emptied.

“Well, here’s as good a place as any for camp,” he muttered.

He guessed he was about another mile outside of Coatecas Altas and the abandoned amusement park. He wasn’t going to make it half that distance bleeding like he was—and on no fuel. He stripped the camouflage wrapping from the metal canteen and filled it with creek water, dropping one of his water sanitizing pellets in. He then set about building a fire, keeping the fuel dry—which wasn’t difficult, considering the terrain—so that the smoke would be minimal.

While waiting for the water to boil and trigger the sanitizing effects of the pellets, Mac checked his wound. He needed to clean it out, but he no more wanted to put the creek water into his wound than he wanted to swallow it. Still, he could get some of the dirt and grime off. He leaned over the edge of the water, unable to see his reflection in the swiftly-flowing water, removed his hat and plunged his hands beneath the surface.

The cold mountain run-off was a shock to his system.

He splashed water on his face and neck, gasping, then rubbed at the dirt and dried blood clinging to his skin. The wound across is forehead stung and he hissed with pain when his clumsy fingers hit it. He was pretty sure that cut was going to cause him trouble, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at the moment.

He ate another of his MREs, cleaning out both it and the first pack so that he could pour water into them while boiling more. When the first canteen full of water was ready, he set another one to boil and used the MRE packets full of water to clean his wound.

“Son of a _bitch_ , that hurts,” he muttered as the hot water sluiced over the four-inch furrow along his ribs.

It wasn’t terribly deep, but it was wide enough he really needed stitches. Looking through the first aid kit, he found Quick-Clot and pressure bandages, but no stitches. Or thread of any kind.

“I need to write a strongly-worded letter to whoever packs these at the Phoenix,” he grumbled, opening the small packet of Quick-Clot and pouring it into the wound, gritting his teeth against the pain. “Mmmrrph. That does _not_ feel good.”

The chemicals began to coagulate and lessen the bleeding as they were designed to do. There would be no way to protect the wound against infection, but maybe….

He looked at the crushed tobacco leaves he’d grabbed when he ran through the field. Glancing around him, he found a relatively flat rock that he rinsed off in the creek, then another he could use as a pestle and mortar.

_“Don’t tell me—you’re taking up smoking after all these years of clean living.”_

Mac grinned as he continued to mash the tobacco leaf into a pulp. “I’m making a poultice,” he replied to the Jack voice. “Besides, if I smoked it now, I’d get pretty sick from the nicotine overloading my bloodstream and crashing my heart.”

_“Whatever you say, Mr. Wizard. You go ahead and make your…precipice.”_

“Poultice,” Mac chuckled, wondering what Jack would say if he knew that even as an imaginary voice, he had a loose grasp on vocabulary. “I’m hoping it helps with the pain. So I can get to that stupid amusement park before dark.”

_“Because everyone wants to be in a haunted amusement park at night.”_

“It’s not haunted,” Mac protested, spreading the tobacco paste onto one of the two pressure bandages and applying it to his side. He groaned at the sting, pressing it flat for a moment and closing his eyes to get a grip on the pain. “But I wouldn’t put it past El Noche to have men still there,” he managed through gritted teeth.

_“So, maybe let’s make us a plan.”_

“Yeah,” Mac nodded, pulling his bloody shirt down and setting the canteen aside to cool. “A plan is good.”

He kicked the fire out and drank the cooling water from the MRE pouch, feeling the lukewarm liquid hit his toes. By the slant of the sun, he had a few hours of daylight left. He needed to get to the amusement park and see if he could rig up some kind of communication with the Phoenix.

But, man…all he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep until someone found him.

_“C’mon, bud, use that ginormous brain of yours.”_

“My brain is tired, Jack,” he sighed, letting his head drop back against the sapling he’d landed near when he collapsed at the creek.

_“You don’t get to be tired now. You gotta get moving, kid.”_

There was an urgency in Jack’s voice that compelled Mac to open his eyes. A part of his consciousness was acutely aware the voices were all his, that he was alone in this. But there was something utterly hopeless in that reality and Mac knew that if he was going to make it out of this alive, he needed to find a way to hold onto hope.

“Somebody’s coming, Jack,” he whispered, grimacing as he sat forward, his side protesting. The tobacco was helping, but it wasn’t a numbing agent.

_“Yeah, I know. So, let’s vamoose!”_

Mac shoved everything into his pack as quickly as he could, sliding the now-full canteen back in its camouflaged sleeve for protection, and stood, shouldering the pack.

Adrenalin was an amazing thing—between that, water, and some fuel, he _almost_ felt like a new man. Moving forward across the creek he made his way through a thicket of trees and down a hill to another rock ledge, this one overlooking the abandoned amusement park.

“ _Puertas del infierno_ ,” Mac whispered. “There you are, Cerberus.”

_“Watch your back, kid.”_

“Thought that was your job,” Mac replied to Jack’s voice, unthinking.

_“Just remember what I taught you.”_

Mac shot a look over his shoulder, honestly surprised when he didn’t see Jack’s serious glower directed at him with those words. His tenuous grasp on reality should have been a clue to the seriousness of his concussion. He blinked, rubbing his aching head with the heel of his hand.

“Get it together, Mac,” he admonished himself, then found a way down the ledge.

A chain-link fence surrounded the park. There was a gate with a loose chain—offering enough space that Mac was able to easily slide through the gap. An unnatural stillness seemed to envelop the space. Even the cicadas had stopped. Daylight didn’t fully permeate the canopy of machines, casting a muted gloom across everything.

“Okay, so maybe you had a point with this ‘haunted’ business,” Mac allowed, but the Jack voice that had followed him down the ledge was silent. Mac took a slow, deep breath and began to canvass the area.

First order of business: communication.

He was able to find what looked like an office near the entrance. Picking the lock took roughly ten seconds, but it was pointless. The building was completely empty—not even a loose cord to be found. He left the office and began to wander.

The main thoroughfare was a wide, paved road—weeds having taking hold and dug cracks into the concrete. There weren’t many rides he could see: one coaster, a few swing and Ferris wheel-type rides, and some carnival games. Dirt from the arid landscape had collected on everything—cracks in the road, in the walls of the buildings, along the tracks of the rollercoaster. It gave the place an aged, false look—almost like he’d walked onto a movie set.

The large, wooden rollercoaster—train car still at the start point—was off to his right, the image of Cerberus on every car and a wooden cut out of a big, three-headed dog guarding the entrance to the first hill. It was clear the car would go through the mouth in the middle head.

Mac walked past it, the image making him shiver. The shadows seemed to stretch, groaning as they reached for him. One hand pressed against his wounded side, the other rubbing absently at his aching head, Mac fought back the sensation of literally walking into Hell.

Because that’s what this felt like: his own personal Hell. He was wounded, lacking a plan for escape, and utterly alone.

It was everything he’d avoided from the moment he’d left MIT, everything he’d worked against in Afghanistan, everything he’d been spared from with Jack as his partner.

Jack might’ve been spooked by this place, Mac allowed, but he’d turn his discomfort into something to distract Mac from his own fear and anxiety. He’d come up with a crazy movie reference or some kind of song that would annoy Mac enough he’d forget to be worried.

_God_ , he needed that right now.

“Well, I won’t back down,” he sang softly, channeling every ounce of Jack Dalton that he could. “No, I won’t back down. You can stand me up at the gates of Hell, but I won’t back down.”

Up on his left he saw one of those swing rides that had always made him queasy as a kid. Several of the wooden seats were broken or hanging by one rope, chains linking the swings together pinging against the center metal bar with the stir of wind. As he continued further into the park, the daylight dying around him, he kept singing softly, ignoring the trembling timber of his off-key voice.

“I’ll stand my ground. Won’t be turned around.” He dodged away from a startled bird flying out of a make-shift coop near what must have been a carnival-type shooting gallery. “I’ll keep this world from draggin’ me down. Gonna stand my ground.”

_“Seriously, kid? Tom Petty?”_

“Don’t blame me,” Mac said softly in response to the Jack voice’s rebuke. “Blame Cerberus.”

_“Thinking maybe you might need Cerberus on your side right about now.”_

Before he could ask the voice what it meant, he heard the clink of chain against metal and the low hum of voices. Eyes darting around him, Mac saw an opened door at the side of the series of carnival game huts and darted through, shutting it quietly behind him.

Inside it was damp; trash and debris littered the floor.

Mac shucked his pack and crouched low, watching from the protection of the game counter as several well-armed men made their way down the center road. When the roar of a diesel engine caught his ears, Mac cursed and ducked under the edge of the shallow counter, pulling his long legs as far into the shadow as he could.

The truck stopped just shy of the section of carnival games, the men accompanying it shouting back and forth to each other in Spanish with raucous laughter and lewd jokes. Mac wrapped his arms around his body and breathed shallowly, listening.

_Drugs_ , he realized.

They’d stored the next shipment here at the park. Inside Cerberus, it seemed. And they’d come to collect, which it sounded like was not part of their original plan. Mac heard them curse the spy who’d betrayed the boss.

_El Noche_.

It seemed the airstrike wiped out the drugs and the compound, but only killed half a dozen of El Noche’s henchmen. Which gave Mac an odd sense of relief. However, the rest of them where here. _Now_. Just outside the game hut he was hiding in.

And that gave him no relief at all.

The truck shut off, the residual smell of diesel thick in the air. Mac held himself perfectly still. The men were standing right outside the hut now. Three of them, at least. One smoking a cigarette. They were speaking too low and too rapidly for him to follow, but it didn’t matter. It was their proximity that was the problem.

One glance into the hut and the shadows wouldn’t be able to hide him.

The man flicked his cigarette into the hut and it hit Mac’s cheek before landing on the floor. He couldn’t help the low gasp of surprised pain as the embers burned the cut that had been laid open by one of El Noche’s men back at the compound.

He closed his eyes when the voices suddenly ceased.

Hoping. _Praying_ , even.

But the door opened. And rough hands grabbed his TAC vest, hauling him upright. Mac opened his eyes, staring into the swarthy face of a stranger, the man’s breath putrid and hot against his skin.

The man shook him, yelling the same words over and over that took Mac’s bruised brain a moment to translate.

_“De donde vienes!”_

“Um,” Mac started, clearing his throat when the man shook him again. “I, uh…I came from…Los Angeles.”

Narrowing his eyes, the man shoved Mac toward the door and into the waiting grip of another mercenary. He was hauled out to the main road, just in front of the truck—the side and doors of this one also adorned by Cerberus’ snarling face.

Fac _es_ , he mentally corrected himself. And for some reason, he felt like laughing. 

_I really must be losing it._

The men were talking rapidly—too rapidly for Mac to follow. There were six of them, and by the way they were arguing, it didn’t seem like any one of them was the leader. One man grabbed Mac and cut the TAC vest off of him, then tied his hands roughly behind his back using zip ties; it was only then that Mac realized he’d left his pack in the hut.

He hoped that ended up being a good thing.

_“Espía estadounidense!”_

_“Mátalo.”_

Whoa, okay that one he knew.

“You got this all wrong, fellas,” he said. “Uh…. _Tienes la idea equivocada_. I’m not a spy—there’s no need to kill anyone, okay?”

_“Espera al jefe.”_  

Mac began to nod, ignoring the spike of pain in his head. “Yes, yes—that’s an excellent idea. Wait for the boss.”

“You talk too much,” the man who’d tied his hands said, coming around to face Mac.

“Funny,” Mac replied, unable to help his answering smirk. “I’m usually told I don’t talk enough.”

The man grabbed Mac’s jaw, squeezing until his split lip began to bleed again.

“You are not saying what we want to hear,” the man accused.

Mac knew what these men were capable of—he’d seen it, he’d _felt_ it. And as the man continued to grip his face, the cold steel of fear slid down is spine.

_“Well, I know what’s right. I got just one life.”_

Jack’s voice. That Texas twang. Nearby. With him, always.

_“In a world that keeps on pushing me around, I’ll stand my ground.”_

“That’s just…too…damn…bad,” Mac managed to reply through his bleeding lips.

The man released his face and Mac had roughly two seconds of relief before he was backhanded so hard he fell, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, his head bouncing against the cracked road—too light to lay open his skin, but hard enough to send him spinning into black.

* * *

When he opened his eyes, it was dark. An unnatural, too-silent dark.

His head was killing him—the pain having slipped beyond the dull ache that had become his companion and turned sideways, slicing through is skull from the inside. Every thought hurt, even the simple ones like _blink, breathe, swallow_.

His hands were still behind his back, and his arms were aching. He tried to leverage himself upright, but his side screamed at him. He could feel it bleeding again. It took him several tries, but he managed to sit up, the change in position sending his head spinning with no fixed point to focus on.

He felt…drunk. Like the world was turning much too fast and he needed to anchor himself before he fell off. He wanted to lean against something; he felt his body swaying as his brain fought to find some kind of understand of where he was in relation to the world around him.

Tightening his core muscles, he managed to keep his body still, breathing slow and shallow until the nausea passed. Pain shifted from bolts of lightning to dull mallet hits as his brain automatically engaged, working to solve his latest problem.

He was inside something. By the hollow echo of his rasping breath, it was fairly large.

_The truck._

He had no idea if he’d been taken somewhere, no idea how far from Cerberus he was, and no idea how long he’d been in there. He was thirsty, his side was bleeding, and his head ached—but all of those things had become such a state of constant reality they no longer allowed him to tell time. He took a chance and scooted until his face was against one of the walls of the truck, pressing his ear against the side.

It was quiet. No voices, no ambient sounds, nothing to help him triangulate his position in any way. For all he could tell, El Noche’s men could have transported the truck to the moon.

_“Or Olympus.”_

Mac actually jumped at the unexpected voice.

“You just don’t quit, do you?” Mac muttered softly toward where the Jack voice had come from.

_“On you? Never, bud. It’s important you remember that.”_

Mac was quiet, resting his head against the side of the truck. “I’m tapped out, Jack.”

_“Naw, you got some fire left in you yet.”_

“Something’s wrong with my head,” he confessed.

_“Well, you got shot, blown up, tossed down a hill, and whacked pretty damn good, so…yeah, I reckon there is.”_

“You aren’t real,” Mac whispered, closing his eyes.

The voice was silent and for one terrifying moment Mac thought he’d successfully chased it away. He opened his eyes, lifting his head away from the wall of the truck.

_“I’m as real as you need me to be.”_

Mac felt himself go weak with relief.

_“Now, get your ass outta this here truck so I can find you.”_

How long had he been _in_ the truck? How long had it been since the exfil?

His body felt like it was ticking down, the pain in his side and across his forehead unrelenting. He needed to use it, let it drive him. He bent in half, groaning as the position pulled at his side, and twisted his arms to the right, trying to get is fingers into the thigh pocket of his camo pants.

“I need you to be goddamned real _now_ , Jack,” he gasped. “What do you think about that, huh?”

The voice had no answer for him.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he panted, reaching until he felt as though he’d dislocate his left shoulder. But then he found it: his Swiss Army Knife. “Didn’t think to pat me down, did you? Bastards.”

Pausing a moment to catch his breath, Mac opened a blade and began to saw through the zip tie, his wrists burning from the friction. When he was finally free, he pulled his hands to his chest and rolled his aching shoulders. His wrists were bleeding now, too. Which was just great.

“Feel like a freaking…human pincushion,” he grumbled, tucking his hands beneath his arms and taking a few slow breaths to even out his adrenalin-infused pulse.

Stuffing his knife back into his pocket, he tried to figure out which way was out through the pitch black inside the truck. Sighing, he used the side panel to gain his feet, figuring worst case scenario, he walked around the big rectangle. He’d no more than taken three steps forward, however, when his foot hit something.

It was soft, pliable.

Frowning, he crouched down and felt with his hands. Cloth, buttons, flesh. Cold, unmoving. Mac jerked his hand back, trying to process what it was he was feeling.

A body.

His breath slowing, reduced to shallow gasps, he felt for the wrist and a pulse. Nothing. The still hand in his was weighted, the absence of life heavier than the presence of it.

Moving forward, he kept his shoulder to the side panel and tried to move the body out of his way with his feet, but encountered another. And another. The further he went, the more there were, until he felt like he was wading through a sea of bodies.

His breathing rapid and harsh with horror, Mac stood frozen, unsure if he should continue forward or head back. Logic and reason were momentarily overpowered by pure panic.

He had to get out of there.

He _had to_ get out of there.

He had to get _out of there_.

Forcing himself to take a slow breath, he continued forward and practically ran face-first into the door. He felt his way toward the middle for the latch and hoped he would be able to leverage it open from the inside. Luckily, the latch hadn’t caught fully and he was able to wedge the blade his knife under it until he could catch the edge and shove the door upwards.

The cool, clean air of night greeted him.

For several minutes, he stood, sagging against the side of the truck, gasping for breath. At first, he didn’t fully register that there were no armed mercenaries stationed to greet him. When the silence of the night pressed against his sweaty skin, he exhaled with relief, blinking to clear his vision.

Once he’d calmed his racing heart, he turned slowly, bracing himself for what was waiting for him in the truck’s interior. The blue hue of night wasn’t much brighter than the pitch inside the truck, but it was enough to see the bodies of at least a dozen women—girls, really.

Mac moaned helplessly with grief, pressing the back of his hand against his mouth.

They were so _young_. Some of them beaten, some untouched, all dead.

He felt a sob build low in his throat and he gripped the side of the truck. The report had been true: there had been human contraband. But they’d been looking in the wrong place.

These girls never stood a chance.

Catching his breath and biting back the tears that wanted so badly to break free, Mac awkwardly climbed down from the truck, pulling the door down with him. At least inside the truck they’d be kept safe from the ravages of nature and the animals. If the Phoenix ever found him, they could give them a decent burial.

The thought struck him then that he hadn’t paid attention to where he’d been taken.

He stepped away from the truck and realized to his shock that he was still in the amusement park, still next to Cerberus. It was night, but he’d officially lost track of how long it had been since he’d last seen Jack. He needed to reach the Phoenix, _now_.

“Radio,” he whispered, his head spinning with the epiphany.

He felt odd, almost weightless. Part of him recognized it to be symptoms of a concussion, blood loss, and dehydration, but the need to _do something_ overpowered the need to rest and be cautious with his wounded body.

Staggering slightly, Mac made his way around to the cab of the truck, opening the driver’s door before looking in, and found himself staring with surprise at the shocked face of one of El Noche’s men. Earphones in place, joint lit, the man was high as a kite and probably thought he was seeing a ghost.

Growling with rage, Mac reached up and pulled the man from the cab, shoving him to the paved road. He punched the man twice in the face before he was forced to stop by the pain screaming through him, a hand pressed to his aching side. Spurred on by the feel of blood seeping through his bandage, he turned from the man and reached for the ignition—only to find the keys missing.

“Keys!” he demanded, turning back to glare at the man still huddled on the ground, his expression dazed.

The man trembled, the tinny sound of country music slipping from the ear phones that had been knocked to the side by Mac’s punches.

Mac leaned over and grabbed the man’s shirt. “Listen, asshole, I know you understand me. Now give me the damn keys!”

He barely recognized his own voice. It was low, feral, empty of everything but hate.

_“El camión está roto!”_

Mac released the man’s shirt. “God dammit.” Of course the truck was broken. Because why should anything about this mission be easy?

_"Ellos vuelven!”_

“When?” Mac snapped. The man didn’t reply; Mac kicked him. “When will they be back?”

_“Pronto!”_

Mac thought quickly. He needed a strategy, a defense. He wasn’t going to be able to make his way to Coatecas Altas on foot before El Noche’s men found him. He’d told Jack to find him at Cerberus and he was staying until Jack found him. He just needed to be _alive_ when his partner got there.

A wave of dizziness punctuated that thought and he swayed, reaching blindly for the door to balance himself.

“Get up,” he growled at the man quaking at his feet. He kicked the man in the side once more. “Get. Up.” He didn’t have the strength to lift him. Not if he was going to be able to form a defense.

Apparently deciding that obeying was better than being kicked again, the man stood. Mac shut the driver’s side door and motioned to the back of the truck.

“Inside.”

The man shook his head rapidly. _“No. No, no por favor. Los espíritus me atacarán!”_

“Yeah, well, if you had a hand in killing those girls, I hope the spirits eat you alive,” Mac growled in response. “Now, get inside!”

Shuddering, the man obeyed, gingerly stepping over the bodies and backing up to the front of the truck. Mac slid the door down and made sure the latch caught. He then made his way over to the game hut where he’d left his pack and sank to his knees in gratitude to the universe that it was still there. Drinking deeply from his canteen, he exited the hut and headed toward the swing ride.

He had work to do.

* * *

**Several miles outside Coatecas Altas, Mexico**

**Gates of Hell Amusement Park**

**5 days since exfil**

_-Still Mac-_

Mac jerked to awareness.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep that time. At some point he’d managed to slip down into a corner of the small control booth he’d been hiding in, shadows tucked like blankets around him.

Even before he turned his face away from the wall toward the narrow room he knew it was dawn. There was a certain stillness to the air that only those who’d stayed vigilant through the night and felt the world change around them with the day would notice.

Mac scratched at the scruff framing his jawline.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been hiding and waiting, but he knew it usually took him at least three days to grow a beard long enough to be more than a knock-off five-o’clock shadow. His clothes were loose; he could see the bones in his wrist jutting out a bit more prominently than they had before as his hand moved from his beard to the slowly-healing wound across his forehead.

The ever-present pain that periodically spiked in his head, his side, his joints, swept through him at irregular intervals, leaving him trembling and dizzy—and completely uncertain as to how much time had passed.

Shifting to a more comfortable position, he grabbed his daily ration of the remaining MREs, then emptied water into his canteen from the filtration system he’d fashioned with repurposed tubing and spouts from Cerberus itself—plus a few of the items he’d had in his pack—then hung from the edge of the window to collect rain or any other residual moisture. Scratching distractedly at his hair, he tried to remember if it was the previous night or the one before where he’d used the sudden rainstorm to wash the dirt and blood from his body as best he could.

His memory was skipping.

Near-perfect recollection had been replaced by moments of clarity interspersed with flashbacks to missions past, to Afghanistan, to growing up with Harry, to the confusing tangle of his childhood. His head had always been full of information; ever since he could remember, he’d coped by selective placement of data in compartments within his mind.

Harry had described them as filing cabinets in his brain, telling him that his father had done the same thing. Mac filed everything away in a specific cabinet, a specific file, so that he could pull it out when he needed it, his recall on par with Riley’s hacking skills. Except...right now, the system wasn’t working.

Something inside his mind was broken.

The filing cabinets were locked or disorganized, resulting in lost time, mixed-up facts, and a loose grasp of what was real. The only thing that kept him steady was working the facts.

Food gone, Mac pulled the shortest blade free from his Swiss Army knife and pushed unsteadily to his feet. Balance was also intermittent. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the bone-deep ache in his side, and the fever burning through his system.

He turned to where he’d last recorded events on the wall of the control booth, swaying for a moment as he sought to clear is blurry vision, and began to mark the last thing he remembered from before he’d fallen asleep.

Sleep was his enemy; they could find him if he wasn’t vigilant. He might miss the Phoenix’s rescue if he wasn’t watching. He allowed himself two hours of sleep for every eight awake. And he kept track of everything on the walls of the control booth.

Mathematical calculations for the best height to set up a snare trap—using ropes from the swing ride—to incapacitate his enemy. The distance between the control booth to the entrance of the park based on shadows that cut through the metallic canopy at mid-day. The amount of cocaine he’d seen packaged in the train car for Cerberus, and the approximate street-value of said cocaine.

The names of the men El Noche had stationed at the park.

The probable reasons for the truck not working—and the ways to fix it.

The approximate ages and nationalities of the girls he’d seen in the back of the truck.

The last thing Harry said before he stopped showing up.

The number of times Jack had talked to him.

He carved it all on the walls, using the paint as his white board, the practice of recording the moments a way to keep his hands busy, keep him calm enough he didn’t rush headlong for the gate and get taken out by a group of mercenaries outnumbering him eight to one.

Anyone who happened across this make-shift shelter would probably see it as the ravings of a madman. Ironically, he carved it all to keep him from legitimately losing his mind.

Exhaling slowly, Mac peered out through the one window high enough for him to see without being seen. The control booth was situated against a rock face, the rollercoaster tracks wrapping around and through one of the foothills. Admittedly, it added to the hellish ambience as well as providing him a fortifiable high ground. A raised, metal platform was the only access point to the control booth and he’d help secure his safety by rigging a rather explosive trip wire destined to bring Hell to Cerberus at the base of the platform.

Eyes scanning the road below, he let his eyes skip over the prone figure of the man his first trap had stopped. He’d rigged one of the Ferris wheel carts to drop with the trigger of a trip wire; it had been rather messily effective. Another man had been caught up in a snare and hung too high for anyone to get to him, dangling from the top of the same ride.

He’d stopped struggling sometime during the night.

Mac knew there were two other snare traps in addition to the trip wire, but as of yet, they hadn’t been found. El Noche’s crew was back at the truck again, trying to fix whatever had gone wrong with the engine.

The irony was not lost on Mac that if he had five minutes alone with the engine and no threat of imminent death, he probably could have fixed it and hauled ass out of there. As it was, since the night he’d locked the first man in the back with the bodies of the dead girls, there’d been no fewer than two armed guards on the truck at all times.

He’d had just enough time to rig up those few traps before setting up defenses to his crow’s nest-like shelter mid-way up the rollercoaster’s first hill. If it hadn’t been for the illusion of ground the side of the mountain offered, the height of the control booth would have sent him into a barely-control panic. As it was, he was able to convince himself that the ground was close enough to keep him safe.

A sudden cough rocked him, forcing him to bury is face in the crook of his elbow or risk calling attention to his hiding spot. His side flared white-hot from the inside out. He knew the wound on his side was infected—the skin was puffy and inflamed, and his whole body ached.

But there wasn’t much he’d been able to do for it besides keep it wrapped using a combination of his spare shirt and the roll of duct tape, once he’d bled through the second pressure bandage. The water he’d been able to gather he’d had to save for drinking to stave off dehydration as much as possible.

When the coughing finally eased, he wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. The fever had started the same night as the rain shower. He’d taken the only ibuprofen he’d had in the first aid pack; it helped curb the heat for a few hours but when the meds wore off, his temperature rose.

He’d had to force himself to be careful about every decision; his mind—usually the one thing he could count on to get him out of any situation—was no longer his ally. He’d even carved ‘do not leave’ on the door above the handle in a lucid moment, afraid he’d walk right into the barrel of a gun when his fever raged bright.

_“You know I’m coming for you.”_

“Yeah, you keep saying that,” Mac sighed, his whisper a foreign thing with edges that sliced the silence around him. “But I’m still here.”

The Jack voice had been the most constant.

Harry had been there, and Bozer, and even his mom once when his fever had spiked, but under it all, when everything else was quiet, there was Jack. Mac took some comfort in the knowledge that no matter what happened—real or not real—Jack would be by his side.

“You’re dead, aren’t you?” Mac asked, a defeated sort of exhale slipping around the question as he sank back against the wall, pulling the blanket he’d fashioned by filleting his pack around him to try to stave off the chills that wracked his thin body.

_“Hell no! Why would you say that?”_

“Because you looked bad, last time I saw you. And you’re here…like this,” Mac waved a hand around the empty control booth. “Not where I can see you. Not where you can get me out of this mess.”

_“Bud, I’m not dead. And I’m coming for you. I promise.”_

“I want to believe you,” Mac said quietly, swallowing hard as tears of exhaustion pressed forward.

_“Then believe it. Make it stone number one, and build on it. I’m coming for you.”_

Mac let his eyes fall closed. “’k,” he sighed.

He was so tired. His body wasn’t cooperating with his need to stay conscious.

“Wake me up if they come for me first,” he entreated.

It was no longer dawn, but it wasn’t really day, either. The canopy of machines and camouflaged netting that made up the roof of the park turned back the light and made it impossible to gauge the time without a watch—which Mac had stubbornly left back home. He fell into a fitful sleep, trying in vain to find some kind of salvation, some kind of healing in unconsciousness.

He wasn’t that lucky.

The first face he saw was Pena’s. He saw the realization, the denial, the utter heartbreak in the man’s expression seconds before the bomb shattered him, wiping him from the earth, from the life of the daughter he’d never meet. Mac reached out blindly as if to stop the bomb from exploding, but he hadn’t been able to stop it then, and he wasn’t able to stop it now. Pena folded into the Ambassador from Argentina, into his son—the small body battered with bullet holes—into Zoe, into a parade of faces and pain.

Heat wrapped around each of them, turning them to pillars of ash, and Mac’s pleas of denial obliterated them, sent them scattering to dust slipping out into the nothing as if they’d never been real. Mac knelt in the ash, choking on it, the fine substance slipping through his fingers as he tried to grip something, anything.

Then a figure moved through the ash cloud, standing above Mac. A familiar figure with a set to its shoulders, a tilt of its head that Mac _knew_ —even if he hadn’t seen it in over a dozen years. It stared down at him, and when it spoke the tone was laced with shame and disappointment.

_“This is why I left.”_

Mac woke with an aborted cry, sweat sticking his hair to his wounded forehead, his clothes clinging to his body. For a moment he stayed still, gasping in the dark, trying to hear past the hammering of his own pulse to detect any sound from the men below. After several minutes of silence, he exhaled with relief. They hadn’t heard him.

Yet.

Rubbing a shaking hand over his face, he pushed upright and shoved the canvas pack off of him. Despite the rain shower, his clothes were so grimy they could almost stand on their own—dried blood and dirt had plastered his shirt to his too-prominent ribs, causing him to shift and adjust until the material didn’t rub at his fever-sensitive skin.

Using the wall, he pulled himself to a shaky stance, peering out through the window down to where El Noche’s men had built a fire near the front of the truck. He could hear the undulations of their murmurs, see the glow of their cigarettes in the gloom. For a moment, he was tempted to use their distraction to climb down and try to sneak past them, out of the park, just to see how far he could get.

No sooner had that thought entered his mind than another wet cough shook through him and he had to bury face in his arm to muffle the sound.

He wouldn’t get more than three feet before they caught him—and this time, he wouldn’t be able to smart-ass himself into the back of a truck full of dead bodies. They would kill him, he was sure of it.

And he was running out of strength, hiding out. Waiting. Hoping.

“C’mon, Jack,” he whispered, the sound coming out as more of a moan. “Please.”

_“Don’t give up, bud. Not yet. You stay with me, no matter how hard this gets.”_

“I’m hurting, man,” Mac confessed.

_“I know you are, kid. I just need you to hang in there a little longer. I’ll find you. I promise.”_

Wrapping his arms around himself, Mac began to pace in the small space inside the control both, trying to stave off his fever-induced shivering. His traitorous mind began rolling back through past missions. Through moments in Afghanistan. Through times when he’d almost been too late.

Groaning softly in retaliation of the memories, he rubbed at the sides of his head, trying to banish the images. He couldn’t seem to hold himself in the present, stay grounded. Pain made him shudder, reaching for the wall of the control booth to keep himself upright.

His hands were twitching; he needed to plan, to escape, to do _something_ other than hide and wait. Out of desperation, he grabbed his knife and began to carve the trials of Hercules into the wall of the control booth, pulling from memory as best he could. He whispered each to himself as he wrote, the low rasp rattling like barbed wire against bone in his chest.

“Lion, hydra, h-hind, boar…uh…st-stables,” he paused, swaying as a wave of dizziness swept through him.

He leaned against the wall, his breath echoing softly off of the wood. He needed to sleep—actually _sleep_ —but he was afraid to let his guard down too much. He had to stay on watch for when the Phoenix came for him.

Because there were a dozen dead girls in the back of that truck, and El Noche’s drugs were still packed away in Cerberus. The minute anyone came in after him, there would be a fight.

He needed to be ready.

“Birds…b-bull…horses…,” he continued, trying to concentrate, his head pounding. “Cerberus.”

A shout sounded from below him and Mac shoved the Swiss Army knife into the wood, pushing away from the wall and stumbling over to the window. He peered out through the grayish light. Another truck was making its way down the main thoroughfare—this one with olive-colored canvas sides and looking remarkably close to the ones driven by the Mexican Army, not the Cartel. It pulled up to a stop behind the first truck and two men jumped out.

Mac gripped the edge of the window, breathing shallowly to avoid coughing, eyes pinned to the activity below. One of the two men who arrived in the second truck was clearly in charge. He shouted to the remaining six men, his gestures plainly demanding something. Mac gasped, his entire body tensing when he saw one of the men point up to the control booth where he’d been hiding.

They knew.

They _knew_ where he was.

The whole time he’d been hiding, they’d just been waiting him out.

Despair cut through him like a serrated knife and his knees almost collapsed, hopelessness a weight he didn’t think he could bear. Watching the men continue to provide a report to their leader, Mac saw another man point to the snares and the man dangling from the swing ride. Mac tilted his head, trying to pick up the words.

They knew where he was, but…they were _afraid_ of him.

_“Él es un mago,”_ the man continued, still gesturing to the snares.

Mac almost laughed, burying his face in the crook of his elbow. They thought he was a wizard.

_“It_ would _explain a lot.”_

Mac chuffed. “I’m no wizard,” he said softly in reply to the Jack voice.

_“If you say so.”_

“It’s science,” Mac continued. “And some math.”

_“With a_ little _bit of magic.”_

Mac sighed, looking back toward the inside of the empty hut, words carved all over the walls. “If I have magic, why am I still here?”

_“You’re waiting for me.”_

Mac swallowed, hard, his head sinking low, chin to his chest. “I’m starting to think you forgot about me, Jack.”

_“That right? Then what’s that, huh?”_

Mac looked back out through the window and saw a black-clad arm slip out from beneath the side of the canvas siding of the second truck. He tensed, holding his breath, eyes darting to the eight men moving toward Cerberus and the train car full of cocaine.

The leader shouted something about getting what he came for—the drugs, the bounty, all of it.

Mac closed his eyes. Bounty. _Of course_. That’s why they hadn’t done anything about hauling him out of his hide-out. They were waiting to collect on El Noche’s bounty.

As the men began to close in on the train car, one tried to wave off the leader, claiming that the last time they’d tried to get the drugs, two men had been caught by snares.

That man earned a bullet to the forehead for his troubles.

Mac jerked back from the window, his gasp of surprise triggering a coughing fit. His lungs seized, his ribs rattling with the force of the cough. He pressed a hand to his side as the wound flared hot. His vision swam for a moment, but then the coughing finally ceased and he was able to slowly straighten up.

When he’d caught his breath, he looked back through the window to see two men in black tactical gear and bearing semi-automatic rifles making their way along the side of the second truck—one of them moving with a pronounced limp. El Noche’s men hadn’t picked up on their tail and were making their way toward the train car, no one daring to question the defacto leader after what had happened to the last guy.

“That’s it,” Mac rasped. “Just a little bit further….”

The snap of the snare cracked through the quiet and one of the men was ripped off his feet, his weapon falling to the ground as he hung several feet off the ground. Mac shot his eyes to the two men in black and saw one stop the other with an arm across the chest.

Three of the remaining men began to back away and the leader turned, pointing his handgun at the men, the word ‘cowards’ breaking off as he caught sight of the two soldiers making their way quietly forward.

“Shit,” Mac cursed, seeing that his rescue—for who else could they be?—was compromised.

In a matter of seconds, a firefight erupted. It was an explosion of sound, cacophonous and chaotic. Mac jerked in reaction, gripping the edge of the windowsill to keep his balance.

He lost track of the two men in black, keeping his eyes on El Noche’s men. They raised their weapons, backing toward the rollercoaster in unison—two flinching back and falling as the soldiers’ bullets found their mark. Mac curled his hands into fists as he saw two more men crash backwards into his last snare—this one a net he’d constructed from chains that once held the swings on the swing ride in place—that swept them both up and slamming them together, knocking one unconscious.

He had one trap left—and it was the only thing keeping the final two men from getting to him. Grabbing his survival knife, Mac backed away from the door, his back to the wall, and waited. For several minutes he heard nothing. And then—

The explosion rocked the control booth. The sound of metal collapsing against itself, bending and crashing to rattle against the ground filled the air with turmoil. Mac slipped down to one knee, waiting, listening, knowing what would come next.

The door blew open. Mac caught his breath.

The leader of El Noche’s men crashed through, his weapon pointed at Mac, trigger clicking on an empty clip. Mac exhaled as he pushed back to his feet, his knife up, bracing for the impact of the man’s attack.

He was twice Mac’s size with three times the energy. He slammed Mac against the wall, crushing the air from his lungs.

Mac fought back weakly, his body too broken and hollow to be much of a threat. The man slammed a fist against Mac’s wounded side and he cried out in agony, going limp in the other man’s arms, the survival knife falling from his grip.

A voice filtered up through the smoke and crashing metal.

“Chucho! C’mon out, now.”

Jack. It was _Jack’s_ voice.

But it wasn’t next to him, close by as it had been. Which was just…confusing.

“We know you’re up there.”

Mac blinked, clumsily dragging himself upright, using the man’s loose shirt as his anchor. El Noche’s man—Chucho—turned Mac roughly around so that he was pinned against the man’s chest like a shield, a thick arm around Mac’s neck. Before Mac had caught his breath, he found himself being shoved forward. They breached the doorway as one and were out on the platform in moments, Mac stumbling dizzily forward, his trembling hands clutching at the arm around his neck. He couldn’t see much beyond the wavering scaffolding of what had once been Cerberus.

“I’m gonna need you to let my boy go.”

Mac’s eyes roamed wildly, searching for the voice, needing to know that he wasn’t the only one hearing it.

_“Este viene conmigo,”_ Chucho shouted, his mouth next to Mac’s temple.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, chief,” Jack replied, his tone brooking no argument. His voice was _real_ and whole and thoroughly pissed off. “Only one taking him outta here is me.”

Chucho muttrered something else, but Mac couldn’t make it out—the man’s arm was tightening around his throat as he moved them forward along the platform, Jack’s voice still below them. The pressure in Mac’s head red-lined into agony as the blood flow and air was slowly cut off by Chucho’s grip. He tried to push back against the hold, but his side sliced pain through him and he felt his legs tremble, threatening to give way.

He had one move left—one crazy, Jack-would-kill-him-for-it move—but if he didn’t try _something_ , he was finally going to be suffocated by one of El Noche’s men.

In one last bid for survival, Mac planted his foot and pivoted with the last ounce of strength he had, catching his captor off-guard and propelling them both over the railing of the platform. It wasn’t a far drop—barely six feet—but the landscape beneath was the craggy edge of a rock wall and a cement road.

He heard Jack shout his name with frantic denial and then they were falling, Chucho still holding him tightly. The fall was brief and the landing abrupt, Chucho’s body taking the brunt of it. The man’s grip loosened upon impact and Mac instinctively rolled away, coughing roughly as his lungs grabbed for air.

Adrenalin propelled him upright and he staggered back, away from Chucho, away from the blur of motion and images of black-clad people heading directly for him. He couldn’t clear his vision, couldn’t slow his frantic pulse, couldn’t find his breath.

A hand grabbed his shoulder and suddenly, the desperate energy that had propelled Mac to this point evaporated and he felt his knees vanish, pitching him forward to the ground. Blinking rapidly, he tried to push himself up, but he was completely without strength.

He heard shouting, someone calling his name, but the darkness at the edges of his vision rushed to center with dizzying speed. His body seemed to seize up and cry out in one rush and then…nothing.

Black. Peace.

And finally, after so many days, all the pain was gone.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** I have to admit, I always wondered what Mac looked like with a beard. I pictured a younger, thinner-faced Charlie Hunnam-style beard. 
> 
> Also, Jack’s naming the mercernary ‘Chucho’ came from me researching “names of famous Mexican outlaws” and discovering **Chucho el Roto** who was a Mexican bandit active in the late 19th century. His real name was Jesús Arriaga; the nickname Chucho (literally "mutt") is a common diminutive of Jesús in Mexico and roto, literally "broken", can mean "discarded" or ragged". Thanks, Wikipedia.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Phoenix Foundation medical wing**

**3 days since exfil**

_-Jack-_

Somewhere someone was playing The Rolling Stones on a piano. It sounded like _Wild Horses_. Jack couldn’t remember MacGyver being much of a Stone’s fan, but…Mac wasn’t in any condition to be picking the music at the moment.

Jack’s suit felt too stiff; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d worn it. Probably his dad’s funeral, come to think of it. He tugged at his tie, trying to square his shoulders. He had to do this; he owed it to Mac.

Moving into the room, he didn’t look at any one person—it was a sea of dark clothes and sad faces framing an aisle that led up to a long, black box that shouldn’t be possible. Not now. Not like this.

Not before him.

Jack felt himself trembling from the inside out. He couldn’t regulate his breathing; it seemed to catch against his heart and fling itself free like it was escaping a trap. Each step brought him inexorably toward the very truth he did _not_ want to face.

Mac’s body.

He reached the edge of the coffin, hearing the piano music fade to the background, the voices murmuring around him like the white noise that hissed from his stereo speakers when he turned them up too loud. He took a breath and looked inside.

Mac was pale. Clean. No wounds marred his face, no lines of pain or fear traced paths around his eyes. He looked calm, passive, and _God_ so young. He looked the boy he truly was to Jack. Never having had the chance to live the life he was meant to—spending so many years living in secret, in pain, putting everyone else before him.

Jack felt a sob build and he tried to keep it in check, his hand drawn to Mac’s arm. He wrapped his fingers around the narrow wrist, too thin in the awkwardly-fitting suit.

“I’m so sorry, bud,” he breathed, tears weighing down the words until they were nearly impossible to free. “I’m so, _so_ sorry.”

Without warning, Mac’s eyes opened, the blue irises glowing with pain and accusation.

“Why didn’t you find me, Jack?”

Jack surged forward with a shout, gasping for air, the dream clinging to him like cobwebs of memory. He looked around, trying to orient himself, terrified of seeing a coffin nearby.

Medical wing. The Phoenix Foundation.

No body.

With a rough sob of relief, Jack dragged a hand down his face, rubbing the tears away. He was thirsty and disoriented, but at least he wasn’t at his best friend’s funeral.

“Should’ve known,” he whispered to himself, tears of relief still pressed against his voice. “Mac would never play the Stones.”

“Agent Dalton?”

Jack looked up to see the same nurse who’d been present when he’d first woken up the day before standing uncertainly in his doorway. He didn’t want to admit it, but he’d fallen asleep waiting on her to come back with his AMA papers. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so wrecked.

Then again, it did always take half of forever for the Phoenix Foundation’s medical staff to file paperwork.

“Yeah,” he barked, gingerly easing his legs over the side of the bed.

“Everything okay?”

“Everything’s just peachy,” he growled. “It’ll be even better soon as I get out of here so I can go find my partner.”

The nurse edged further into the room. Jack knew that when they’d removed the IV, sensors, and leads yesterday it made the medical staff’s job a bit trickier since he wasn’t exactly the most cooperative patient.

But from the moment Dr. Banner had given him the soft cast and told him he’d be able to walk while his leg healed, Jack was on a mission. Never mind that every step sent a live wire of pain shooting through his entire nervous system.

Pain he knew. Pain he could deal with. Pain was real and controllable and familiar.

Mac being gone— _that_ was ripping him apart.

“I know you are signing yourself out—as is your right,” the nurse began, the AMA papers clutched in her fingers, “but I really need to caution you to take it easy. Your body is still rebuilding blood and platelets, not to mention the muscles in your leg—“

“Look,” Jack held up a hand, his stern expression halting any additional words the nurse might have been planning. “I got it. I won’t plan any marathons anytime soon. Now just give me the damn papers.”

Sighing, the nurse handed the papers over. “I suppose someone is bring you some clothes? Or are you planning on heading out of here bare foot and bare assed?”

Jack might have grinned at the nurses’ _I’m 1000% done with you_ tone if he’d had the energy, but at the moment, all he could think about was figuring out where Mac was.

“Someone is bringing him clothes,” Riley’s voice sounded from the doorway. “Even if that someone is not a fan of this whole escape plan.”

Jack looked up from where he was balancing himself against the edge of his hospital bed and met Riley’s eyes. She looked wan, her dark hair pulled up into a messy knot at the top of her head, the jeans and hoodie uniform of her youth making a return. She handed Jack his go bag and he snatched it from her grasp.

“Thank you,” he eyed the two women. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The meaning was clear: they weren’t wanted.

In reality, Jack wasn’t sure how balanced he’d be with his air cast just yet and didn’t relish the idea of falling flat on his face in front of his surrogate daughter and someone who had a vested interest in his not leaving the hospital quite yet. The two women sighed in unison, exchanging a wordless glance, then left the room. Jack hobbled to the bathroom, wincing as he put weight on his leg, then a quickly as possible changed into regular clothes.

His leg sported two three-inch incisions, stitched together nicely, and a hell of a lot of bruising, but all things considered, it wasn’t that bad. He placed fresh gauze over the sutures, then wrapped his thigh with an Ace bandage before pulling on his jeans. Over top of the denim, he secured the air cast the doctor had said would help support his muscles as they were healing.

And, since Jack had no plans to rest up and take it easy as instructed, he needed as much extra support as he could get.

Once changed, he acquiesced to the demand of a wheelchair out to where Bozer waited in Mac’s Jeep, if only to close down one more lecture on taking care of himself. Leveraging himself into the passenger seat—after Riley had climbed into the back—was harder than Jack had imagined.

And it had nothing to do with his leg.

“What’s with the Jeep?”

Bozer swallowed as he pulled onto the highway. “Thought maybe it might trigger some memory. Y’know. Being around Mac’s stuff.”

Jack looked out through the side window at the passing traffic. “So you believe he’s alive?”

“Man, I want to. I want to _so bad_ ,” Bozer’s voice cracked. “I just…Matty said….”

“Forget what Matty said,” Jack growled. “Mac would never give up on _us_.”

“We’re not giving up, Jack,” Riley protested. “Quit treating us like we’re the enemy—we weren’t there, okay? We didn’t hear what happened after Mac blew out the wall.”

Jack exhaled. “I’m sorry,” he glanced over his shoulder at Riley’s tense face. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just can’t—“ He stopped talking, realizing that Bozer was taking him home. “Whoa, no, no, man. To the Phoenix.”

Bozer shot a look over at him. “You serious?”

“Damn right,” Jack’s stern tone pulling his eyebrows close. “We’ve already left him alone out there for three days, man. We can’t afford to lose time.”

“What’s the Phoenix going to give you?” Riley demanded as Bozer took a different exit, heading toward their office. “Matty’s done everything she could.”

“Matty ain’t me,” Jack replied.

“True,” Bozer allowed. “Anything, uh…y’know. Come back to you? Last night, maybe?”

Jack closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, the images of Mac’s bloody face—the determination in his blue eyes as he physically hauled Jack to safety—flashing through his memory.

“Jack?” Riley pressed, worried.

“Nothing new,” Jack sighed. “But there’s…,” he shook his head. “Mac would not have just _left_ without some kind of exit strategy. And he sure as hell wouldn’t have made himself a target.” Jack met Riley’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “Matty told you they found the remains of six mercenaries.”

“And Mac’s DNA,” Riley finished.

“Right,” Jack twisted around slightly in his seat so that he could see both of them. “No remains—just DNA. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“That Mac was there,” Bozer concluded.

“But not that he _died_ there!”

“Jack,” Riley began, her tone hesitant, “you know Matty doesn’t _want_ Mac to be dead, right?”

Jack was quiet a moment, turning back to face front. “She gave up on him awful fast.”

“That’s not fair,” Riley continued. “We had nothing to go on.”

“You had _Mac_ ,” Jack replied, his tone clipped. “That oughta been enough.”

They drove on in silence so thick it was hard to take a deep breath. At one point, Bozer turned on the radio to the last station Mac had been listening to. Pink Floyd creased the quiet of the Jeep with musings about regret, softly strumming Jack’s thoughts like fingers of memory.

He watched the traffic go by, listening. Thinking. Trying to remember.

He should have done so many things differently. They should never have gone into that compound. He should have strafed the mercenaries instead of running after Mac. He should never have let Mac hand him over to the exfil.

He shouldn’t have lost him.

As Bozer took the last exit off of the freeway toward the Phoenix, Jack rubbed at his chest as if the ache in his heart could be soothed by touch. Regret was a different kind of pain. It was loneliness wrapped in the dark paper of loss and guilt. It burned with a secret fire that couldn’t be extinguished, even with the forgiveness of others.

Only the impossible forgiveness of self could combat that pain—and Jack didn’t think he’d be forgiving himself anytime soon.

Bozer pulled into Mac’s parking space and Jack climbed out of the Jeep, limping toward the building without waiting to see if the others followed. He was on the elevator and heading to the War Room where he knew he’d find Matty before Riley and Bozer could catch up with him.

“Jack!” Matty’s expression of resignation betrayed her tone of surprise.

“I want to see all the surveillance footage from the mission,” Jack demanded.

“We didn’t have—“

“Cut the shit, Matilda,” Jack growled, stepping forward and crossing his arms, putting her immediately on the defense and not caring one bit. “You always double cover. I found that out when we were trapped in an avalanche in Canada.”

Matty brought her chin up, the immaculate black suit and teal blouse giving her an air of authority even without the glint in her dark eyes or the posture of defiance. “If you’ll recall, we knew El Noche’s drones were in the area and decided to keep it to comms only.”

“Then get Riley to tap into the bastard’s drones,” Jack demanded.

“We already tried that,” Riley answered, slightly breathless from having chased him down. “Man, you can move fast in that leg brace.”

“I’ve always been a quick healer,” he replied, turning, hands on hips. “What else have you tried? Sending a drone out now to sweep the area? Checking the comm chatter with El Noche’s men? Looking through the wreckage in the compound to see if there was a lower level that could hide a person?”

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Riley replied.

“In addition,” Matty spoke up, stepping forward to crowd Jack’s personal space. “I called in favors with my CIA and FBI contacts, I donated $100,000 to the Mexican Army, and I pulled rank on Border Patrol.”

“And none of them had _any_ information about a skinny blond kid running around the Mexican wilderness?”

At this, Matty averted her eyes. “Not…exactly.”

“What?” Bozer exclaimed, stepping forward. “I thought you said—“

“I said that we didn’t have word on MacGyver’s location or confirmation that he survived. Which we don’t,” Matty looked back up at Jack.

“You couldn’t get them all to play ball, that it?” Jack guessed.

Matty sighed. “We have nothing to go on except hope, Jack.”

“Mac has put his life on the line for those bastards more times than I can count!” Jack shouted.

“And if we had something to give them, maybe I could—“

Growling, Jack swung his fist low, sweeping the bowl full of paperclips from the center table and scattering them around the room. “I am goddamn _sick_ of _maybe_!”

“Dalton!” Matty snapped at the same time Riley gasped a surprised, “Jack!”

But Jack was beyond a firm reprimand. He bent low, pointing his finger at Matty.

“You hear me now. You give up on this boy, you can count yourself down two agents. Because there is no way I’m working for someone who won’t pull out all the stops to bring one of their own back.” He straightened up, his face red, his chest heaving. “We do not leave a man behind.”

“This is a clandestine government agency, Dalton,” Matty replied, her voice cold. “Not Delta.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.” Jack matched her tone.

“Agent Dalton,” Matty began, drawing herself up to her full height, staring at Jack with an impassive expression. “You are relieved of duty until you have successfully passed a psych eval. I do not want to see you on the premises for a minimum of 72 hours.”

“That’s just fine with me because I’m not coming back here without Mac,” Jack replied, turning and limping from the room.

He heard Matty order Bozer to take him home and ask Riley to go back through the surveillance footage from El Noche’s drones once more to see if there was anything they could have missed. Slightly mollified by that ask, he waited for Bozer to join him in the elevator, but said nothing as they made their way to the Jeep.

“You want to go home?” Bozer asked, climbing behind the wheel. “Or to our place?”

“Your place,” Jack replied. “I need to see his room.”

“That’s what I figured,” Bozer nodded.

“You with me on this, man?”

Bozer exhaled, his hands tightening on the wheel. Jack watched him, registering suddenly that he’d never really studied the intent and reactions of the man next to him. He’d always been so focused on Mac that his partner’s childhood friend had been somewhat perpetually in shadow.

The man was drawn, his expression grim as his dark eyes scanned for a break in traffic to merge onto the freeway. It took Jack a moment to realize that the normally dapper attire had taken a back seat and Bozer, too, was wearing jeans and a hoodie, much like Riley.

“Mac ever tell you about how my brother died?” Bozer asked instead of answering Jack’s question.

Jack’s eyebrows bounced up. “You had a brother?”

Bozer nodded, a sad sort of smile relaxing his face for a moment. “Figures Mac wouldn’t have told you. The guy knows—knew…, _knows_ —how to keep a secret.”

Jack waited, guessing correctly that Bozer was searching for the words to convey what was clearly a tangled web of thoughts.

“It was before I met Mac—my little brother found my dad’s gun, and…well, you can guess what happened.”

“Jesus, Bozer, I’m so sorry,” Jack breathed.

“Thing is, I didn’t even tell Mac—not at first anyway. When I met him, he was just…there was something kind of…wounded about him. I didn’t know about his mom at first. I mean, I knew when his dad walked out; a lot of the kids teased him about it.”

“Kids are assholes, man,” Jack shook his head.

Bozer chuckled slightly. “Yeah, some can be,” he allowed. “But Mac…he was real quiet about it. He acted like it didn’t matter to him—but you knew it did. I could see it on his face. He had this stubborn kind of set to his jaw, and he kind of looked…I don’t know. It was a look in his eyes.”

“Thousand yard stare,” Jack replied. “I’ve seen it on a lot of guys when they got back from active duty, especially if they saw something…rough. Over there, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, Mac had that look at twelve years old,” Bozer replied. “Anyway, there was something about the way he saw me—like he could just tell something real bad had happened in my life. And he just…stepped in and…and fixed it. Not like he does now, y’know. No paperclips and duct tape. It was just…just him. Being near me and listening and being….”

“Your brother,” Jack said softly.

“Yeah.” Bozer replied, nodding. “Yeah, exactly. And it’s been that way ever since. So,” Bozer pulled up the long drive that led to the house he shared with Mac, “if there is any chance—any at all—that Mac is still alive out there, I’m all in. One hundred percent.”

“He’s still alive out there,” Jack said, his hand on the door of the Jeep. “I bet my life on it.”

Bozer came around the side of the Jeep and stood close in case Jack needed his help. Jack wanted to stubbornly walk unaided into the house, but the truth was, he was tired and his leg _hurt_. Bozer stood silently and let Jack rest a hand on his shoulder.

“I got your meds,” he said. “Y’know…just in case.”

“Might as well,” Jack shrugged. He probably should follow _some_ of the doctor’s advice.

They went inside and Jack swallowed the medicine with a glass of water Bozer handed him, then limped down the hall toward MacGyver’s bedroom. Pushing the door open felt a bit like he was opening someone’s diary.

The room smelled like Mac: engine grease, the metallic scent that lingered on his skin after working with tools, and a hint of Cool Water cologne. Jack swallowed past the lump in his throat and edged further into the room, sitting heavily on the end of the bed, letting his eyes trail over the space.

The workbench—which in any other bedroom might be considered a desk—was covered with bits of what might have been bomb fragments, some fitting together, others scattered, as though Mac were trying to puzzle out something.

“The Ghost,” Jack said softly in realization.

“What?” Bozer asked, his voice just as hushed.

Jack nodded toward the workbench. “He’s trying to get into the head of The Ghost.”

Bozer shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders lifting in a shrug. “That’s not the only head he’s trying to get into,” he said, nodding toward the magnifying light and the wrist watch positioned beneath it. “Think his dad has any idea how much he twisted his own kid up?”

“My guess is…the guy doesn’t care,” Jack sighed, the ache in his heart returning.

The meds were starting to kick in; the muscles along his back and down his legs began to lose their intense grip and he was suddenly breathing a bit easier. He pushed to his feet and limped toward the far edge of the workbench where another light stood. Frowning, he reached out and grasped the chain that hung from the edge of the lamp.

“What’s that?” Bozer asked.

“Mac’s dog tags,” Jack said softly. “I thought he had them in his personnel file at the Phoenix.”

“That where yours are?”

Jack nodded, running the pad of his thumb over the raised letters stamping out MacGyver’s name, rank, and serial number. “Hell, man. He was just a kid when he joined up.”

“I told him he was crazy for leaving MIT.” Bozer took Jack’s place on the end of the bed. “I mean, who leaves one of the most prestigious universities in the nation to go disarm bombs in the desert?”

“He had something to prove,” Jack said quietly, lifting the dog tags off of the light and slipping them over his head. The cool metal felt right against the heat of his skin, the weight of the chain like an oath he’d always meant to take.

“To who, though?” Bozer argued. “His granddad and I—we already knew he could save the world.”

Jack looked back at the workbench, fingers still tracing the indents of information on Mac’s dog tags. “To himself,” he said quietly.

Eyes roaming around the bookshelves and neatly made bed, Jack let his mind slip back to the night before all hell broke loose at El Noche’s compound. Mac had said something that wouldn’t leave him alone—like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.

“He needed to be able to protect me,” Jack muttered, moving toward the workbench, eyes roaming the bomb fragments, but not seeing them.

“What’s that?”

“He was afraid of something,” Jack continued, his eyes landing on the watch positioned under the magnifying light, the guts and gears exposed to scrutiny. “He wanted to take on El Noche’s compound on his own…didn’t want me to be part of it. Like he was afraid if I did, I wouldn’t be coming back.”

“Guess he got his wish,” Bozer muttered, getting up to run his index finger along the spines of books on Mac’s shelf.

“Thing is…that’s my job, man,” Jack shook his head. “Always has been—since the minute I tried to beat his scrawny ass for touching my gun.”

“Wait, hold up,” Bozer rounded on him in surprise. “You hit Mac?”

“I tried to wipe the floor with him,” Jack replied, a grin of memory stretching his face. “Kid was a scrapper, even then. Our punishment for fighting in the ranks was being assigned together.” He let his fingers fall away from the dog tags. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

Bozer approached cautiously. “We’ll find him, Jack,” he said, clearly trying to infuse the words with every bit of reassurance he could muster. “I mean…you saved his life for a reason, right?”

Jack frowned. Bozer only knew the half of it. Mac had saved _his_ life—as many times as Jack had protected his friend, Mac had been right there, covering him, watching for ways to keep Jack away from danger. That had to mean something.

He just couldn’t sift through the cobwebs of memories to find his way clear to _what_ it meant. He needed to remember—because if he didn’t, Mac was as good as gone. And if there was anyone who could help him cut through the clutter of memory, it was Freddie Tillerman.

“Boze,” Jack said suddenly. “I need you to take me someplace.”

“Uh, sure, okay,” Bozer frowned, backing up a step. “Now?”

“Yes, now,” Jack replied, limping past Bozer and heading toward the front door.

_Hang on, kid,_ Jack thought. _I’m coming for you. I promise._

* * *

Freddie Tillerman had been a sniper in his unit back before Jack had even known Angus MacGyver existed. He’d been one of the best—Jack’s job as overwatch when it came to Freddie had been a milk run each time. Until one day, Freddie just couldn’t pull the trigger. The doctors had diagnosed it as PTSD, but Jack knew it was more that Freddie’d had enough killing. It had stopped mattering who was in his sites anymore, and that was the line.

To Jack’s surprise, the big man had returned to the States and started a support group for Vets—all branches of the military, all manner of loss and need. After they’d lost the Ambassador in Argentina and Mac couldn’t get past the loss of the man’s family—especially the little boy—Jack had introduced him to Freddie and saw with a modicum of relief that having a place to put his pain that he didn’t see as burdening someone else had lifted some of the weight from his partner’s young shoulders.

It gave Jack part of an answer to the question he asked his Pop months ago—the balance between trust and protection when it came to someone he cared about was not easy to find. But offering them some place to escape made the line a little clearer.

Freddie’s latest location for his group therapy was in an empty conference room above an old printing press once used by the _Los Angeles Times_. There wasn’t an elevator and Jack stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up balefully. It had already been a long day and his leg was absolutely _aching_.

But as long as it had been for him, he knew Mac was ten times worse.

“How ‘bout I go up and ask Freddie to come down here and chat with you?” Bozer said, catching Jack’s arm just as the older man started to swing his wounded leg forward.

Jack looked over at him gratefully. “Thanks, man.”

Bozer nodded once, then took the stairs two at a time.

“Oh, now you’re just showing off,” Jack muttered.

He turned and sank down on the third to last step, letting his leg stretch out straight before him. He couldn’t help but let his mind shift to MacGyver, thinking of the terrain around the compound, wondering if the kid had found shelter, if he had water, if he was wounded beyond the bullet graze Jack remembered.

Leaning his head against the wall, he let his burning eyes slip closed, breathing in the breezy L.A. air wafting through the opened front door of the building. A car stopped at the light in front of the building, windows down, radio up.

_“…hey, baby. There ain’t no easy way out. I won’t back down….”_

Jack hummed along for a moment; he’d never really been a Tom Petty fan, but the man did have some catchy tunes. The light turned, the car pulled forward, and above him, Bozer called his name. He craned his neck to see his friend following Bozer down the stairs.

“Hey, man!” Freddie greeted, his wide smile crinkling the corners of his dark eyes. “What’re you doing camping out on my stairs?”

Jack smiled back; he couldn’t help it. He reached up a hand and grasped Freddie’s, allowing the black man to pull him to his feet.

“Caught a bullet,” Jack gestured with a sweep of his hand toward his leg.

“Man, don’t you know you’re supposed to—“

“—let those go,” Jack finished, grinning and looking down. “Yeah, man, I know.”

“Where’s that partner of yours?” Freddie asked, glancing around Jack’s shoulder as if Mac were hiding somewhere. “Our last conversation ended in a bit of a cliffhanger.”

Jack shot a look at Bozer.

“I’m going to, uh…call Matty. See if she’s got anything for us,” Bozer said, offering a hand for Freddie to shake. “It was real good to meet you, man.”

“Good to meet you,” Freddie agreed, his expression clouding somewhat. He waited until Bozer left, then turned to face Jack once more. “What’s going on, Dalton?”

The friendly counselor was gone; in his place stood a soldier, ready to act.

“Mac’s missing,” Jack replied, not bothering to beat around the bush.

“Missing?”

“It gets worse,” Jack said, resting his hands on his hips and looking at the ground. “I was the last one with him…and I…, uh.” He shook his head. “I can’t remember where he is.”

Freddie was quiet a moment. “This have something to do with that bullet you caught?”

Jack nodded, not trusting his voice.

“C’mon,” Freddie waved him forward and Jack followed the taller man into a side room, waiting as Freddie turned on the lights and shut the door.

Moving away from Jack, Freddie crossed the room to grab a couple metal folding chairs, sighing as he mused aloud. “Trauma can do strange things to the mind, Jack. Blood loss…, well, you and I both know how that can mess with you, too.”

Jack felt his face heat up. His hands curled into fists. “Freddie, I swear to God if you tell me that Mac’s probably dead, I’m going to—“

Freddie turned abruptly and squared off with Jack from across the room. “Hold up!”

Jack closed his mouth with a click.

“I’m not saying anything like that,” Freddie continued. “I’m saying we gotta figure out what’s blocking you—stopping you from remembering.”

Jack swallowed, settling back on his heels. “Oh.”

“Come over here,” Freddie gestured to the folding chairs. He swung one around to face the other. “Sit down, stretch that leg out.”

Jack gratefully did so, trying not to sigh with relief with the weight off his leg. “Look man, I just—“

Freddie held up a hand. “I don’t need to know the details, Jack. You don’t need to worry about the excuses. Something led you here—what was it?”

“Mac’s dog tags,” he answered honestly. He pulled them out from beneath his black Henley. “They were in his room, not in the personnel file at…uh, work.”

Freddie nodded. “This made you think of your time in the sandbox.”

“Yeah, just…,” Jack shook his head. “I’m not sure _what_ about that, y’know? Other than the forty bagillion times Mac saved my ass. And how much I owe him.”

Freddie took a breath. “Close your eyes.”

Jack arched an eyebrow, his defenses instantly on alert.

“Trust me,” Freddie entreated.

Jack exhaled slowly, closing his eyes.

“Picture the last time you saw Mac, everything you can remember. What he was wearing, if there was dirt on his face—“

“Dirt and a helluva lot of blood,” Jack interjected.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Freddie assured him. “Just picture it. Picture what was around him, where his hands were, what it sounded like when he spoke. Don’t focus on the words just yet; focus on the _sound_ of his voice.”

Jack felt himself falling back to Mexico, the pain in his leg spiking, his heart rate slamming at the base of his throat, choking off his air. He could see Mac, hear his panic and his struggle. He could see the determined set to his mouth, the expression in his eyes that told Jack the kid had an idea.

And under it all was a song, something totally incongruous to the memory.

Frustrated, he huffed and rubbed at his forehead with the base of his palm. “Dammit!”

“Don’t force it, Jack,” Freddie soothed. “The memory is there, it wants to come out—“

“It’s not that,” Jack slouched back against the metal backrest. “Just this stupid…earworm.”

“I’m sorry?” Freddie tilted his head, clearly confused.

Jack rubbed at his leg above the brace, trying to dismiss the ache as best he could. “Heard this song while I was waiting for you and I can’t get it out of my head.”

Freddie nodded. “So…use it. Hum it. Sing it, whatever. Just let it be background noise while you search for Mac.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You know where Mac is; you just have to remember.”

Jack let Freddie’s baritone lull him back to Mexico…to the dark foxhole they’d camped inside for hours, to the sound and smell of the garage they’d taken shelter in.

“Well, I won’t back down,” Jack sang in a low mutter, eyes closed, picturing the Mexican morning, the smell of gunpowder and sweat, “no, I won’t back down.”

Time passed—it felt like hours. Freddie kept talking and Jack just let the words slip into a sort of white noise, going back to the moment Mac was carrying him from the compound, when he felt the kid trembling from bearing his weight. He saw the panic and fear in Mac’s eyes when he couldn’t lift Jack once more, his arms shaking from the strain.

“You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won’t back—“

Jack suddenly gasped, flinching back as though Freddie had pushed him. He opened his eyes but he wasn’t seeing the big black man across from him. He wasn’t seeing the empty conference room or anything _now_.

He was seeing Mac in his TAC gear, crouching against an adobe wall, peering through a crack in a wooden gate.

_“Says…Cerberus…. It’s the mythical three-headed dog that guards the gates of hell….”_

“Jack?”

He was seeing Mac’s smirk tossed back at him over the kid’s shoulder.

_“_ Puertas del infierno _…. Gates of Hell. The broken-down rollercoaster? It had a picture of a three-headed dog on the side.”_

_“I remember…. Although I’m not sure if I should be impressed or worried that_ you _do.”_

Freddie shook him, but Jack was choking on memory. He was hearing the desperate panic in Mac’s voice, seeing his friend’s blood-covered face peering down at him, determination shining in his blue eyes.

_“Cerberus, Jack. Find me at Cerberus!”_

“Oh, God,” Jack rasped, dragging in breath, Freddie coming into focus.

The bigger man was on his knees in front of Jack, both hands on Jack’s shoulders, searching his face for some kind of recognition. Jack grasped at Freddie’s arms, seeking balance before he tumbled off of the chair.

“Oh, Jesus, man. I know where he is. I know where he is.” He couldn’t catch his breath, his vision spinning.

“You okay, Jack?” Freddie asked, not backing away. “You scared me, man.”

_Cerberus._

“I know where Mac is,” Jack gasped, his hands shaking as he held tight to Freddie’s arms, grateful for the other man’s heavy grasp. “I remember.”

“Good, okay,” Freddie nodded. “Just breathe a minute, okay? Take it slow. You stay right here. Let me get you some water.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jack nodded, releasing Freddie as the man stood up to leave the room. He rubbed the top of his head, the short spikes of hair filing through his parted fingers. “He’s at Cerberus,” he whispered to himself. “He’s at Cerberus.”

Now, all he had to do was figure out where the hell Cerberus was.

* * *

“Matty, what are you saying right now?” Jack demanded, his cell phone on speaker as he sat in the passenger seat of Mac’s Jeep, Bozer headed back toward the Phoenix.

_“To get Oversight to authorize an exfil, I need to provide them evidence that our operative is, in fact, alive.”_

“Evidence like what?” Bozer demanded.

_“A cell phone signal, a photo with him holding a paper with today’s date,”_ Matty replied, her voice brittle. _“Some kind of proof of life.”_

“You gotta be kidding me,” Jack growled.

_“I’m so sorry, Jack,”_ Matty offered, sounding sincere. _“I will keep trying.”_

Jack hung up without another word. He felt an emptiness growing in the pit of his stomach, a sense of loss and hopelessness replacing air in his lungs. It couldn’t end like this—not after he’d remembered.

Not after he _knew_.

“Where am I going, Jack?” Bozer asked, deviating from his route to the Phoenix Foundation. “C’mon, man, what’s next?”

“I…I don’t…,” Jack shook his head, his fingers numb as they gripped his phone. “I’m not sure.”

“Hang on, now,” Bozer snapped. “You said you know where he is—Coatecas Altas, right? You said—“

“I know what I said, dammit!” Jack snapped, dropping his phone into his lap and pressing his hands against his temples. “I just can’t…I mean, how do we get there? How do we get him?”

He didn’t realize how frantic his voice sounded until Bozer replied with forced calm.

“Okay, hey. It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Jack closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the seat, closing his eyes. He felt the car shift as Bozer took an exit.

“Where’re you goin’?” Jack asked, his words slurring with exhaustion and heartache.

“Home—our place,” Bozer replied. “You need food and rest.”

Jack brought his head up. “No, man, I gotta—“

“You gotta eat and rest,” Bozer broke in. “You forget you had major surgery three days ago, man? You aren’t going to do Mac any good you pass out in his Jeep. And I ain’t carrying your heavy ass into the house, so…food, rest, then plan.”

“Plan,” Jack exhaled, giving in. “Yeah, okay.”

* * *

Jack moved on autopilot when they got to Mac’s house. He ate what Bozer put in front of him, hugged Riley when she arrived—not having realized Bozer called her—took his meds and let Bozer push him down the hall to Mac’s room. He even let Riley remove the air cast from his leg so that he could lay down for a few hours.

The only thing he was truly conscious of was demanding to be woken up in two hours. He needed to figure out how to get to Cerberus. Get to Mac. Get the kid home.

His dreams were full of disjointed images and voices from his past.

He saw his dad riding his horse, Whiskey, next to Tom Petty who was walking a three-headed dog. He heard Mac laughing and followed the sound to find the kid sitting in the middle of an empty lot, building a life-sized replica of the Millennium Falcon out of Legos. He saw Bozer and Matty sitting on a diving board drinking shots of tequila while Riley skateboarded below in the empty pool.

And then he saw a grey wolf standing on a snowbank staring at him with familiar blue eyes.

He woke with a gasp, confused by the dimly lit room. Groaning, he sat up, smacking his lips. His mouth was dry, a bad taste on his tongue. Rubbing the back of his head and then bringing his hands up and around to dig the heels of his hands into his gritty eyes, Jack yawned, then gingerly moved his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the red numbers of the digital clock next to the bed.

6:27.

AM.

“Riley!” His bellow bounced off of the walls as he pushed to his feet. His leg throbbed, but didn’t feel quite as bad as it had when he’d allowed himself to be pushed to bed. Apparently _nine hours_ off his feet actually helped. “ _Riley_!”

“I’m coming,” Riley snapped, her voice floating down the hallway toward the room from the kitchen.

When she opened the door, he’d made it to Mac’s bathroom and was turning on the shower. “You let me sleep!”

“You needed it,” she shot back, standing in Mac’s room and yelling toward the bathroom. “I tried to wake you up twice, but you were exhausted. And still healing, by the way.”

“Nine hours, Ri,” Jack groused, pulling the Ace bandage and gauze pads from his wounded leg, then climbing into the shower. “ _Nine_.”

“Well, they weren’t a complete waste,” Riley replied. “I think Bozer and I have a way in to Coatecas Altas.”

“Sanctioned?”

“Not even close,” Riley replied with a huff.

Jack used Mac’s shampoo and soap, relishing the feel of the hot water beating into his aching muscles. “Well, I got me an idea, too,” he called back. “I saw it in my dream—a blue-eyed wolf.”

“A wolf,” Riley repeated, her tone severely unamused.

“Yeah,” Jack turned off the water, stepping out and toweling dry. “Hey, ask Bozer if they’ve got any of my spare clothes here. No way I’m gonna fit into Mac’s stuff.”

“Gimme a minute,” Riley grumbled.

Ten minutes later, Jack was rebandaged, dressed, and leaning against the kitchen counter sipping scalding hot, black coffee. Bozer and Riley were dressed in the same clothes as they’d worn yesterday and it was clear neither of them had gotten much sleep. After dutifully taking his meds—though cutting the pain pills in half—Jack felt like a new man. Despite the limp.

“What’s this idea of yours?” Jack demanded as Bozer handed Riley a cup of coffee.

“I called my, uh…colleague,” Bozer cleared his throat, tossing a glance toward Riley before returning his attention to Jack, “from spy school who joined the CIA. She may be able to get us access to a helicopter.”

“Only problem is,” Riley sighed, dropping her chin in her hands. “We don’t have a pilot.”

“That’s where my idea comes in,” Jack said, grabbing a granola bar from the bowl on the counter.

“The blue-eyed wolf?” Riley asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Isaac Gray.”

Bozer pulled his head back. “The dude you and Mac pulled out of an avalanche in Canada?”

Jack saluted him with his coffee mug. “Same guy.”

“Isn’t he, like…Russian intelligence or something?” Riley asked, straightening up.

Jack could see her wheels turning; she grabbed her laptop, flipping it around to face her and opened the top.

“Last I heard,” Jack nodded, watching as Riley’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “But he owes us—owes _Mac_ in particular. If we can find him, I’m willing to bet we can get him to help us.”

“Matty’s never going to go for this.” Bozer leaned back against the fridge, rubbing his face.

“I don’t plan on telling her,” Jack replied, darkly. “And you two are not going to be involved in this.” Riley arched a brow at him. “I mean…well, y’know…after you help me get the information I need.”

“Hang on, Jack—“

Jack held up a hand. “No, Boze. No. I gotta bring him back, but I don’t have to ruin your lives to do it.”

“I told you—I’m in this 100%.”

“And you can be in it covering my ass and getting me a chopper.”

“But—“

“He’s right, Boze,” Riley chimed in. “It’s going to be hard enough for Jack to get Mac out of there; he doesn’t need to be worrying about us.”

Jack blinked at Riley, surprised by her agreeable nature. “Uh…thanks?”

“Besides,” Riley turned the laptop around to face Jack. “Pretty sure one of us is going to have to trade in some pretty serious credits to get your boy Isaac in on this game.”

Jack looked at the computer screen. Isaac Gray was currently in the San Bernadino Country jail on a drunk and disorderly charge. And he was Asian.

“That’s not Isaac Gray,” Jack frowned.

“He _did_ tell you it wasn’t his real name,” Bozer offered.

Jack shook his head. “There’s gotta be some way to find _our_ Isaac Gray,” he looked at Riley. “Can’t you just….” He waved his fingers at the computer.

“I’m not a wizard, Jack,” Riley grumbled, turning the computer back around toward her. “I can’t just… _accio spy_ and have him show up.”

Jack puffed out a burst of coffee-laden breath, dropping his head into his hands. They were so close… _so close_ he could feel it. And Mac was going on four days alone and wounded and….

“I gotta find him, Ri,” he said quietly. “I lost him and…,” he lifted his face, his eyes burning, his throat closing up. “I gotta find him,” he managed on a breath.

Riley’s eyes welled and she put a hand on his arm, her fingers cool against the heat of his fear and frustration.

“I’ll keep looking.”

“Meantime,” Bozer stepped forward. “Let’s do what we can to get ready.”

It was late afternoon before Jack felt any real hope again. Every minute that ticked by, he thought of Mac—what he was doing to survive, if he were wounded, if he were angry that Jack wasn’t there. He ate, he rested, he planned, and he worried. He couldn’t remember being this on edge about someone since their last mission before being honorably discharged and returning home.

“You’re gonna rub the letters right off of those,” Bozer commented as he checked the list of supplies Jack had given him.

Since Jack wasn’t allowed back at the Phoenix, Bozer was going to borrow some supplies. On the down low. Jack guiltily dropped his hand away from Mac’s dog tags, shaking out his fingers as though to rid them of the feel of the letters.

“What is it?” Bozer pressed.

“Nothing,” Jack shook his head, frowning at the list in Bozer’s hand. “You sure you can get all of that?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Bozer replied. “And that’s not even close to a ‘nothing’ face.”

Jack rolled his neck. He was sitting on the couch, his wounded leg stretched out before him, free of the air cast. Riley was curled up on the chair opposite him, ear buds in to help her concentrate, eyes intent on the glow of her computer screen. Bozer sat on the edge of the coffee table, his dark eyes leveled on Jack, their intent clear: he wasn’t moving until Jack started talking.

“You know how you said I saved Mac’s life for a reason?”

Bozer nodded.

“And, I did,” Jack nodded, frowning, finding it hard to dig the words out and place them in the open without Mac there to keep him steady with his quiet gaze and humble smile. “But, uh…this Wookie life debt goes both ways.”

“Well, sure,” Bozer nodded. “You guys told us about that pressure plate you stepped on and he disarmed underneath you.”

“Yeah, there was that, but, uh…,” Jack cleared his throat. “There was this other time. In Farah. A little over a year after we met—right before we were going to go home.”

Bozer leaned forward and out of the corner of his eyes Jack saw Riley pull the earbuds from her ears slowly, having picked up on their body language.

“I was on overwatch,” Jack started. “It was…it was a bad day. I mean some days it’s not really a big deal. You go through the motions, nothing much happens. You get back to barracks and have a beer and play music too loud and cuss a lot and it’s all good, y’know? But…other days.” He shook his head, at a loss for the right words that would help someone who’d never been there—who hadn’t seen what he’d seen—understand. “There are some days that are just…just _bad_ days.”

He rubbed the top of his head with the flat of his hand. “I’ve been a soldier most of my life. Been through some…nasty shit. Seen some bad things. But this day was one of those you don’t really let go of. I think Mac had a nightmare or a premonition or something. He rigged up this…sensor thing,” Jack made a square shape out of his fingers and positioned them up by his left collar bone, “made me wear it so he could find me.”

“What, like firefighters wear?” Riley asked.

Jack nodded. “Only this was connected to some trigger thing that only Mac carried. He wanted to be able to find me, but he didn’t want the bad guys to.”

Jack rolled his neck again; he’d told part of this story to Isaac Gray back in the Canadian wilderness, when MacGyver’s pain and fever had him reliving the moment in disjointed clarity, but that had been to a fellow soldier. Someone who didn’t need a lot of words to understand what it meant to be lost and trapped and alone in that place.

Bozer and Riley regarded him with wide, tired eyes, waiting for his next words, trying to understand where Jack was coming from, why his attachment to Mac was so fierce, and where this story fit into their picture.

“Mac was disarming a bomb,” Jack continued. “He was alone in the street, exposed, and I didn’t take my eyes off of him. Which is why I never saw the guy with the RPG.”

“Oh, Jesus, Jack,” Riley breathed.

“I never felt the hit,” Jack lifted a shoulder. “The floor just kind of…disappeared on me and then…nothing. Black.” Jack cleared his throat, reaching up for Mac’s dog tags again. “Next thing I knew, Mac was digging me out. I had fallen into this, like…pocket. Nothing even landed on me, I was…well, mostly fine.”

“Damn,” Bozer commented. “You got some angels watching out for you, man.”

“Yeah, and that day it was a twenty-year-old kid who didn’t give up until he found me,” Jack recalled. “The uh, the blast knocked him around bad—he lost the trigger thing and got hit on the head pretty good. By the time he found it, found me, dug me out, he was, uh…he was bad off, but…he didn’t quit.”

Jack paused, remembering how the blood had covered Mac’s face, turning his blue eyes neon. How Mac hadn’t been able to speak clearly beyond Jack’s name. How he’d trembled, his breath hammering with panic and adrenalin long after Jack had gotten free.

“He refused to believe I was gone, even with an entire building coming down on me.”

Jack looked down at the dog tags, his vision blurring as the tears burned his eyes, slipping down his face, his skin hot from memory.

“He didn’t give up.” Voice strangled with emotion, Jack looked back at the two young agents. “I can’t either.”

“We’ll get him, Jack,” Bozer promised, tears in his voice.

“And I think I found our way in,” Riley said, clearing the emotion from her words. “Is this your Isaac Gray?”

She turned her laptop around and showed him a picture of a dark-haired man about his age with eyes as blue as Mac’s.

“Yep, that’s our guy,” Jack said sitting up straighter on the couch, banishing the tears with the pads of his finger and thumb. “Where is he?”

“Right here in L.A.,” Riley smiled. “I got a number.”

She gave Jack the number and he limped out to the deck to call Gray, leaving Bozer to head to the Phoenix for their supplies. At first Jack wasn’t sure if the number would work. He was asked to leave his name and told that someone would get back to him.

“Tell him it’s Little Wolf,” he said, then hung up, looking out over the view of L.A. from Mac’s deck.

The phone was quiet in his hand, practically mocking him as he tried to think of another way to reach Gray. Then the phone rang. His heart leap into his throat and he fought to keep his voice even as he answered.

“Yeah.”

_“This isn’t Little Wolf,”_ said the voice on the other end of the phone.

“No. It’s Alpha Wolf,” Jack replied. “Figured that name would get you.”

_“Dalton?”_

“Gray,” Jack greeted. “I need a favor.”

There was a pause at the other end. _“Where should I meet you?”_

“You know Eightfold coffee shop on Sunset?”

_“No, but I got GPS.”_

“See you there in an hour.”

_“Roger that.”_

Jack hung up and took a slow, deep breath. He was one step closer. “I’m coming for you, Mac.”

* * *

“You look like shit,” Gray greeted him with a nod as he sat across from Jack at the narrow table, a to-go cup in his hand.

“Hello to you, too,” Jack returned. His eyes tracked Gray’s tamed dark hair and broad shoulders. His beard was trimmed close—less Grizzley Adams, more Jon Snow. “You’ve looked better, yourself.”

“Not that you’ve seen,” Gray grinned, skin crinkling disarmingly around his mouth.

Jack tilted his head in concession. “True.”

“So, what’s this favor?” Gray’s eyes shifted around the room, taking in the patrons, checking the exits. His wariness somehow put Jack at ease. “I’m guessing it’s got something to do with your pal, Think Tank,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee before leveling his gaze on Jack.

“What makes you say that?” Jack asked, frowning.

“’Cause he’s not with you,” Gray replied. “And you’re carrying about eight different kinds of tension on your shoulders right now.”

Jack lifted his chin. “That’s right. You read people for a living.”

“As do you,” Gray lifted his brow. “Which is why you called me.”

Jack leaned forward. “Mac’s in trouble. I need help to get him out.”

“The kind of trouble we can’t tell our bosses about?” Gray brought his chin up.

Jack shook his head. “It’s not like that. He, uh…,” exhaling, Jack closed his eyes. “He’s missing. But I know where he is.” He opened his eyes and stared at a random crack in the table between them.

Gray slouched a bit in his seat, shifting his feet as though balancing himself. “Start at the beginning.”

Rolling his lips against his teeth, Jack rubbed his forehead, then took a breath. “Okay, about a year ago, we had a case where we had to break this guy—El Noche—out of prison so that we could track him to his compound and put down some of his guys.”

“Are you about to tell me Mac’s in trouble with the Cartel?” Gray asked, his baritone pitched low.

Jack nodded. “You want to hear the rest of this?”

Gray tipped his head. “I knew I should have finished watching _Narcos_ this weekend,” he sighed. “Go on.”

Jack summarized their disastrous mission in Mexico, watching as Gray’s eyes shifted to his leg, then back. The man listened with his whole body, reminding Jack of MacGyver in so many ways. When Jack concluded with the potential access to a chopper and needing a pilot, Gray looked down at his coffee.

“So, basically, you want me to fly both of us into Mexico, land in or near a known Cartel compound, get MacGyver out, and get home—with you still healing from a near-fatal bullet wound.”

Jack swallowed. “Yeah, that’s about the gist of it.”

“How long has he been stuck there?”

“Tomorrow will be five days, man,” Jack said, his voice tight. “He was hurt when I left and I don’t know what kind of shape he’ll be in. You were a medic, and…you helped put him back together once before….”

“And you’re sure he’s alive.”

“I _know_ it,” Jack looked at Gray. “I know it in my heart.”

Gray pressed his lips out. “We could be disavowed for this.”

Jack nodded.

“Hell,” Gray shifted back in his seat, “we could be killed doing this, forget whatever the government wants to do with us.”

Jack nodded again.

For several minutes the only sound was the ambient noise of the coffee house. Baristas calling out orders, millennials rumbling and chuckling through caffeinated conversations, some kind of guitar-strung tune underscoring it all. Jack took a breath, ready to let Gray off the hook, when the man spoke up.

“That kid saved my neck in Canada,” Gray said quietly. “Never met anyone like him.”

Jack waited, breath held.

“Don’t think I could live with myself if I let the Cartel get him just to save my career.”

“So you’ll help me?”

“Think you can be ready for wheels up at midnight?”

Jack felt tears flood his eyes. He had to look down, swallowing roughly, trying to find his voice. Gray waited for him.

“Isaac, I—“

“Look,” Gray interrupted. “You can thank me when we get him back home, yeah?”

Jack looked up, nodding gratefully. They had work to do.

* * *

“You did good, Boze,” Jack said, strapping his TAC vest in place. “I’m impressed.”

“I, uh…,” Bozer shifted from one foot to the other. “I kind of had help.”

Jack brought his head up. “I can’t say I’m surprised. She’s always been a bit of a rebel, our Matty.”

“She said she’ll deny it if you say anything to her about it,” Bozer lifted a shoulder. “But…she’s really hoping you’re right, Jack.”

“We all are,” Riley said quietly, handing Jack his leg brace, now air-brushed black so that it blended with the rest of his attire. “You sure your leg’s going to handle this?”

“It’ll be like Beggar’s Canyon back home,” Jack replied, earning the expected eye roll.

“You know, you don’t _have_ _to_ reference Star Wars on every mission, right?”

Jack grinned. “Says who?”

A motorcycle pulled up to the hanger where the three agents were tucked into the shadows. The headlight cut before the engine and a tall man dismounted, resting his helmet on the seat before approaching them.

“This the crew?” Gray asked Jack as he stopped, standing at parade rest while he eyed Riley and Bozer.

“It is,” Jack nodded, gesturing first to Riley and then Bozer. “Pretty much the world’s best hacker and our resident expert of disguises.” Jack didn’t miss the pleased smirks that followed his descriptions. “They’ve got us stocked up.” He handed Gray one of the automatic weapons Bozer had acquired and a TAC vest of his own.

Gray nodded his thanks and geared up. “Comms?”

Riley handed them both small ear pieces, watching as they inserted the devices.

“I’ll be monitoring you from here the whole time,” she said, “but we won’t be able to call in the cavalry until we have proof of life.”

“Matty’s on call,” Bozer confirmed. “You get him out of there alive, she’ll cover your back.”

Jack nodded, but Gray huffed. “Typical government process. Only put their asses on the line if they can guarantee something’s in it for them.”

“Good thing we’re rebels, then, huh?” Jack grinned, clapping Gray on the shoulder. “You ready for this?”

“Where’s our ride?”

Riley nodded to a Sikorsky MH-60G Pave Hawk. Jack winced at Gray’s head shake; the chopper was pretty beat up, which was why they’d been able to get it. But Bozer had been guaranteed it was flight-worthy.

“Let me guess,” Gray sighed. “It made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs.”

“Oh my God, it’s contagious,” Riley groaned.

“It’ll fly,” Bozer promised. “And I’ve got a med kit on board.”

“Ammo?” Gray looked at Jack.

“Not on the chopper,” Jack shook his head. “Guns were stripped. But we’ve got extra mags for these babies,” he lifted his rifle with one hand.

Gray nodded, then clapped his hands together. “All right, then. Let’s go get your boy.”

Jack looked back at Riley and Bozer, filling his eyes with them, wanting to say so many things.

“Just go, Jack,” Bozer said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, infusing as much meaning and emotion as he could in those two words.

Riley gave him a smile that hit her eyes, then tugged Bozer’s arm and they melted back into the shadows. Jack headed to the helicopter, pulling himself inside.

_I’m on my way, bud. Don’t give up._

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Hopefully the story made it obvious, but just so you’re clear—Freddie Tillerman’s ex-sniper turned group counselor for Vets was first introduced in my story _Anvil + Duct Tape_ and returned again in _Wolf + Snow_ ; Isaac Gray was the CIA agent Mac and Jack were assigned to rescue from the Northwest Territory in Canada in my story _Wolf + Snow_. I liked them, so I decided to bring them back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Several miles outside Coatecas Altas, Mexico**

**5 days since exfil**

_-Still Jack-_

The flight to Coatecas Altas was quiet and tense. Gray didn’t call in a flight plan, going dark to slip around the radar at the US border, and heading for the sea. The mountains limited their choices of landing zones.

“Where is this…Cerberus place again?” Gray asked over the headset.

 _“Best we can tell,”_ Riley spoke up over their comms, _“it’s about two miles South of Coatecas Altas. But since it’s not exactly on a map, that’s definitely a give-or-take.”_

Gray glanced at Jack. “You’re not going to be able to hike four miles with that leg.”

“You just worry about the LZ,” Jack snapped. “I’ll be fine.”

“You need to be fine enough to haul MacGyver out of there,” Gray shot back.

“And _you_ need to land this monster somewhere the Cartel isn’t going to shoot us out of the sky or strip it for parts,” Jack retuned.

Gray tilted his head in concession, flipping his night vision goggles into place. “Good point.”

They banked around the edge of a mountain and Jack held his breath. They were quite literally flying in the dark; he really wanted to get to Mac in one piece. Unexpectedly, Gray sent the nose of the helicopter down in a dive, causing Jack to yelp.

“Think I found a place.”

“No shit. Thanks for the warning,” Jack growled.

“Hey, just following orders,” Gray replied.

 _“You two okay?”_ Riley asked.

“Fine,” the said in unison.

Jack closed his eyes as Gray set the helicopter down in a small clearing. How he’d seen it in the dark, Jack would never know, but it was good enough cover for now.

“You need a barf bag, man?” Gray asked, a grin coloring his tone.

“Ha. Ha.” Jack unstrapped his harness and grabbed his weapon. “Get your gear.”

Jack clipped his night vision goggles in place on his helmet, adrenalin fueling him, masking any lingering pain in his leg. He checked his GPS with the guestimated coordinates Riley had given them, then waved Gray forward. They moved silently through the rough terrain, the air smelling of dirt and creosote. Jack heard the skitter of nocturnal animals scattering before them as they trekked North, away from Coatecas Altas, and hopefully toward the Gates of Hell.

After about a mile, Jack felt his leg twinge. He tried to hide the limp, but Gray was in hyper alert mode. He slowed his pace to stay even with Jack. Before Jack could say something about not making concessions, the low rumble of a truck sounded in the distance. The men reached instinctively for each other, Gray pulling Jack behind an Ahuehuete tree, their weapons in ready position.

“It’s Army,” Gray whispered, peering toward the road through his night vision goggles.

 _“There’s no report of Army activity in the area,”_ Riley reported. _“At least…not that I can tell. If it’s Army, it’s rogue.”_

“Cartel,” Jack whispered.

“And our ride,” Gray declared, grabbing the front of Jack’s TAC vest and taking off at a run after the truck.

_“Wait, guys—“_

But Jack tuned out Riley’s protest and concentrated on running. His leg was on fire, the muscles quaking dangerously. He clenched his jaw, the pain ratcheting up through his hip and into his shoulder until it stole his breath. Gray didn’t say a word; he simply kept hold of Jack and ran.

When they reached the back of the truck, Gray grabbed the tailgate with one hand and half-flung Jack forward until he was able to grab it himself. It was a large, box-shaped truck, the back covered with flaps of canvas, only partially snapped down. When the truck faltered as the driver shifted gears, Jack hauled himself up and over the tailgate, falling inside. He lay gasping for air, his body trembling with pain, as Gray followed suit.

Wordlessly, Gray helped haul Jack into a seated position, his hand flat against Jack’s sternum as he waited for Jack to say he was okay. It took Jack a moment to get a grip on the shuddering ache that washed over him, wave after wave.

When he realized his leg wasn’t bleeding, the sutures had held, the bandage and air cast were still in place, he nodded and gave Gray a thumbs up.

“We’re in,” Gray reported to Riley as Jack looked around the empty interior of the truck, registering how lucky they’d been with that move.

And Riley spared no time informing them of that fact.

 _“You have done some dumbass things, Jack Dalton, but that was by far the dumbest thing you’ve ever…,”_ Riley sputtered. _“What if there had been a dozen armed men in the back of that truck? What if you’d been seen? What if your leg had given out? What if—“_

“Ri,” Jack said, surprising himself with how calm his voice sounded. “We’re good, okay? Breathe. We’re good.”

Riley’s angry mutterings cut off mid-curse and Jack flipped his night vision up to the top of his helmet, looking over at Gray. “She’s not wrong,” he whispered. “We could be going away from Cerberus right now.”

“I don’t think so,” Gray said softly. He handed Jack what looked like an edge of a packaging label.

“Cerberus,” Jack breathed.

“Rest your leg,” Gray entreated. “Pretty sure we’re going in hot.”

Jack leaned his head back against one of the support bars, the loose canvas covering flapping in the wind next to his head. As the truck continued down the rough road, the world began to light up around them, sunrise turning the mysterious shadows of the night into nothing but cacti and trees. The cover of dark no longer an option, the men pulled their helmets off, disengaging the night vision and pulled up their scarves over the lower portion of their faces so that only their eyes were visible to each other.

The truck slowed, taking a turn too sharply. Jack gripped the tailgate of the truck for balance, tucking his hand back inside when the truck paused at what looked like a chain-link fence, then pulled through, the gate gaping open behind it. Gray flicked the safety off of his weapon, then nodded to Jack. When the truck stopped, the soldiers held their breath.

Two men exited the cab of the vehicle; Jack heard shouting in Spanish.

“You understand what they’re saying?” he whispered to Gray.

Gray lifted a shoulder. “I could if it was Russian.”

 _“Shut up, both of you,”_ Riley snapped. _“They’re talking about…a…a bounty? And something about a wizard in a tower.”_

“What the hell?” Jack tilted his head. “Did we interrupt the Cartel’s book club?”

 _“There are drugs, Jack_ ,” Riley said. _“In one of the rides.”_

“That’s our cue,” Jack nodded at Gray and they slipped over the side of the truck, beneath the canvas, moving as if they’d been working side-by-side for years.

Jack silently praised their shared military training for ingraining such synchronized movements into their muscle memory they were able to advance as one, weapons up. Moving quietly along the side of the truck, Jack took in the environment.

The mechanical canopy masked the daylight giving the morning a look of twilight. The abandoned rides and carnival games sent chills up his spine; in the distance, he saw the macabre sight of what appeared to be a body hanging from the end of a rope snare—apparently too high to be easily cut down.

“He’s here,” Jack whispered, his voice only audible via their comms.

“How do you know?” Gray whispered back.

Jack nodded toward the snare. “That’s his handiwork.” He caught Gray’s grin out of the corner of his eyes and put an arm out to stop his advance. “Careful,” he warned. “There’ll be more.”

Before Gray could do anything else but nod, a shot rang out. Jack jerked in surprise, pulling his gun up instinctively only to see the man who’d been doing all of the shouting had shot one of his own men in the head. Jack and Gray halted, weapons on point, both tensed to act.

As the men continued to move cautiously forward, Jack and Gray inched forward as well, all of them freezing the moment one man was caught by Mac’s snare, the rope snapping up and pulling the mercenary off his feet, his gun clattering to the ground.

“Shit,” Gray whispered.

Jack tightened his grip on his weapon as the leader shouted at his fearfully retreating men, turning to face them, his weapon sweeping across the men, his eyes landing on Jack and Gray.

Jack felt something in him shift, a trigger pulled, a switch flipped. The pain in his leg, the fear for Mac’s life, the uncertainty of their choice, all slipped into the background and he was a soldier. He saw a target, he fired. There was no question, no doubt. He was a merchant of death, a pillar of protection, and he was damn good at his job.

“Bad guys down,” Gray reported through the comms, moving forward, his body tucked against the side of the truck for protection, his weapon up and at the ready.

 A startled cry cut through the gunfire as two men were swept up in a net that looked to be made of chains.

“And…bad guys up,” Gray reported, clear admiration in his voice. “I bet your boy is the wizard they were talking about.”

“That’s a fools bet, right there,” Jack grunted, firing again.

“Boss man is getting away, Jack.”

“I see ‘im,” Jack replied. “His pal is headed for those stairs—“

He never got to finish his sentence. In an impressive display of pyrotechnics, the track and a rail car next to the base of the stairs blew, sending one of the last of El Noche’s men flying backwards off his feet to land in a motionless heap.

The man who’d been shouting all of the orders ran up the stairs, heading straight for the small building that looked like a control booth for the rollercoaster. It hit Jack then, the realization so strong he almost doubled over.

Mac was up there. In that small hut.

And the last of the mercenaries had just charged through the door.

“Chucho!” he called. “C’mon out, now.”

“Chucho?” Gray whispered, confused.

“I don’t know, man,” Jack replied, moving closer to the stairs. “It was that or Poncho.”

Gray tipped his head, his weapon covering Jack’s back.

“We know you’re up there,” Jack shouted again.

He waited, debating on the wisdom of climbing the stairs and risking his leg giving out. There was just one left—one man between him and Mac. He could do it if he—

He wasn’t given the choice. The leader exited the small hut, Mac held against him like a shield, his arm wrapped around Mac’s throat. Jack took a stuttering breath, lowering his weapon.

Mac was alive. He was there, breathing, moving, and basically upright.

He looked like death, but he was _alive_.

Jack wanted to shout out in recognition, jubilation. He wanted to run up the stairs and grab the kid up in hug and never let him go. He wanted to shout to Matty Webber that he was _right_ , goddammit.

He was right.

The relief passed in seconds when he saw Mac’s hands shaking, even from this distance, as the kid reached up to pull ineffectually at the grip around his throat.

“I’m gonna need you to let my boy go,” Jack ordered, bringing his weapon back up. He felt Gray turn at his back, saw the soldier’s weapon trained on the figures at the top of the stairs.

 _“Este viene conmigo,”_ Chucho shouted.

Jack saw Mac’s eyes close, as though in pain.

 _“He said he’s taking that one with him,”_ Riley translated, her voice tight, clearly having deduced that it was Mac they were talking about.

Jack felt his blood heat at those words. No fucking way was this asshole taking Mac anywhere.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, chief,” Jack barked, bringing his weapon up, sighting in on Chucho’s forehead. “Only one taking him outta here is me.”

Something shifted in the air at that moment. He heard Mac groan, saw Chucho tighten his grip, sighted down the barrel of his weapon and felt the change. It was almost as if he could see the expression in Mac’s eyes. The determination to do something, to act, to keep Jack safe no matter what it took.

“Mac!” Jack shouted his warning, but was too late.

Mac planted his foot and twisted his body, sending both he and his captor over the edge of the platform to the rocks below. Jack and Gray were moving forward the second the duo hit. Gray headed toward Chucho, Jack to MacGyver. Fueled by fear and adrenalin, Mac rolled away from the mercenary, surging momentarily to his feet just long enough for Jack to grab his shoulder before the blood drained from his face and his knees seemed to vanish.

Jack couldn’t move fast enough to catch him.

“This one’s dead,” Gray called from over by Chucho’s body.

Jack tugged the strap of his weapon over his head and set the gun aside, kneeling next to Mac’s prone body as best he could with his air cast. Gently, he rolled Mac over, wincing in sympathy at the angry wound on his forehead, the bones he could feel protruding around the muscle of Mac’s shoulder.

“Isaac!” Jack called, not taking his eyes from Mac’s pale face. “I need you here.”

Gray was on the other side of Mac in seconds. “Oh shit, kid,” he breathed. “What a mess.”

“Jesus, he’s so hot,” Jack said, his hand at the juncture of Mac’s jaw and his throat. He could see the shadow of his cheekbones, his lips dry and cracked, and there was blood along his left flank. “What’s this?”

Gray pulled up what was left of Mac’s shirt, drawing a knife from his TAC vest and flicking out the blade to cut away the duct tape and T-shirt bandage and get to the wound along Mac’s side. Jack could smell the infection before Gray said anything.

“This is bad, Jack,” he reported, pulling the bandage free from Mac’s skin, causing the younger man to groan weakly. “We gotta get him back to the chopper.”

“Riley,” Jack barked into his comms. “Tell Matty we got her goddamned proof of life.”

 _“I will, Jack,”_ Riley replied, _“but we are picking up three more trucks headed that way.”_

Jack exchanged a look with Gray. “How far out?”

_“Probably ten…fifteen miles.”_

“Okay, look. We can use the truck to—“

“Jack.”

The voice was a sad imitation of Mac’s usual timber, but Jack was focused on his friend immediately. He bent over Mac, a hand on his partner’s face, drawing Mac’s bleary gaze to his face.

“Hey, bud,” he smiled. “That was some swan dive.”

“Jack,” Mac repeated, his eyes rolling closed as pain swept his features. “The girls…the…the girls.”

He seemed to sag a bit then and Jack patted his face. “Mac? Hey, man, now…c’mon. You can’t start a story like that and not finish it.”

“Maybe he’s talking about something up in that hut?” Gray offered.

Jack nodded. “Good idea. Go check.”

Gray was on his feet and heading up the stairs before Jack finished the order. Pulling the small canteen he had on his belt free, Jack gathered Mac up against him and pressed the opening to the younger man’s cracked lips.

“C’mon, kiddo,” Jack entreated. “Need you to take a drink for me.”

The cool wetness seemed to revive Mac slightly—enough to drink anyway. Jack held him as he gulped the water like he hadn’t had any in days. Jack could feel heat rolling off of Mac. He checked him over for more injuries beyond the bullet graze along his temple and the nasty wound on his side. Other than severe malnutrition and dehydration, those two wounds seemed the worst of it…but they were bad enough.

Jack looked up when he heard boots clamoring down the metal stairs.

“Anything?”

“No girls,” Gray said, his face pulled tight with lines of worry. He handed Jack a Swiss Army Knife. Jack recognized it as the one he’d given Mac to replace his granddad’s. He tucked it into his TAC vest. “But there’s something you should see.”

“Jack,” Mac rasped again, this time not opening his eyes. “The girls….”

“What about the girls, bud?” Jack asked, curling Mac closer to him, frowning at how thin the kid felt. He was shaking in Jack’s arms, shivering from fever or trembling from pain, Jack couldn’t tell. “God damn, he’s gonna come apart.”

“This is not good,” Gray slid to his knees, frowning as his eyes darted over Mac’s thin frame, eyes centering on the wound at his side. “Jack, he’s gonna crash on us, if we don’t—“

“T-truck,” Mac managed, gasping slightly and arching his neck, the effort to speak so great. “In the…the truck.”

Jack _felt_ Mac fade that time. It was as though all of the will slipped out of him with those words. He was suddenly too heavy in Jack’s arms.

“Mac?” Jack shook him. “C’mon, kid, don’t do this.”

Gray’s fingers were at Mac’s pulse. With a frown, he tipped his ear to Mac’s mouth, then grabbed Mac from Jack’s arms, laying him flat.

“He’s not breathing,” Gray declared.

“What?”

“I’ve got a weak pulse,” Gray leaned over and tipped Mac’s head back, opening his mouth. He breathed into Mac’s mouth once, then turned his head to listen for breath. He tried once more, then felt at Mac’s throat. “Dammit!”

Jack saw Gray shift to do compressions, and he stopped him. “I got his, you take the air,” he said, coming up on his knees and pressing hard on his partner’s sternum, counting off in his head. “Dammit, kid, you do _not_ do this, you hear me?”

When he reached thirty, he paused, letting Gray breathe for Mac. Gray had his fingers at Mac’s throat. When he shook his head, Jack started again.

“You never gave up on me, Mac,” Jack puffed, feeling Mac’s ribcage bend with his thrusts, the cartilage cracking and giving way with the strength he applied. “You never stopped, and goddammit, I’m not giving up on you. You _do not_ get to quit!”

Jack paused. Gray breathed. Jack started again.

“You hear me, Angus? You do _not get to quit_ on me.”

Compressions, pause, breathe. Again.

“C’mon, kid, don’t do this. You’re stronger than this, Mac. Don’t you do this!”

Just as Jack paused again to let Gray breathe, Mac’s chest bucked, a small cough of air escaping.

“That’s it,” Jack encouraged. “You got this, c’mon, kid.”

Mac gasped and coughed, his body curling to the side with the force of the cough. Looking weak with relief, Gray turned Mac to his side, facing Jack, rubbing the younger man’s back encouragingly. Jack sank down, sliding off of his knees, and gathered Mac against him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pulling Mac close so that his mouth was by the younger man’s ear. Mac’s breath was raspy and rapid, but there. He smoothed Mac’s hair from his face. “Easy now, I’ve got you. That’s it. Breathe. Just breathe.”

 _“Is he okay?”_ Riley asked in the comms. Jack had forgotten that she could hear everything they said.

“He’s breathing,” Gray reported. “But it’s…bad. We gotta get him some fluids and meds—I am pretty sure that infection is septic. And based on what I saw in that hut, he’s dealing with a pretty serious concussion.”

“What did you—“ Jack shook his head. “Y’know what? Never mind. You can tell me later. Let’s just get him out of here. We can use the Army truck to get back to the chopper.”

 _“Wait—the truck,”_ Riley broke in. _“What was Mac talking about with the girls and the truck?”_

Jack and Gray exchanged a glance.

“You said this mission started because of a report about human contraband,” Gray reminded him.

 _“Oh, God, you don’t think…I mean, what if the report wasn’t a trick?”_ Riley asked, dread clear in her tone.

“He has to be talking about the Cerberus truck,” Jack said, not budging from where he held Mac, one arm around Mac’s shoulders, the other resting on his sternum, needing to feel the kid breathing.

Gray pushed to his feet, then silently turned to head to the large box truck parked in front of the Army vehicle. Jack felt Mac shudder in his arms and he looked down to see a frown pulling the younger man’s brows close. Jack brushed his bangs from his forehead, then looked up to track Gray’s progress. The other man reached the back of the box truck.

“You good?”

“There’s something in here, Jack,” Gray called back. “I, uh…can smell it.”

Jack’s stomach sank. Gray pulled the latch to the side, then shoved the door upwards, staggering back with his arm over his face. He stumbled around to the other side of the truck, out of Jack’s view, and Jack could hear retching. He didn’t blame the man; based on what he could see from where he sat holding Mac, there were several bodies in the truck.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. “That’s why you didn’t leave.”

He brushed his hand over Mac’s fever-hot cheek and watched for Gray to come back. After a moment, Gray returned, pulling the door of the truck down, latching it and gathering himself before heading toward Jack.

“There are at least a dozen bodies in there—and I’m guessing from what I saw in the hut, they’re all female, Hispanic,” Gray said.

“What do you mean, what you saw?”

Gray pulled his cell phone from his TAC vest and showed Jack a picture, sweeping through several until Jack got the idea. “Your boy turned the walls of that hut into an accounting of the last week…more or less.”

“Why didn’t he just drive the damn truck out of here?” Jack wondered aloud, looking down at Mac’s pale face, the too prominent cheekbones casting shadows across the blond scruff along his jaw.

Gray turned and ran for the cab of the truck. After several minutes of silence, Jack heard the sound of the hood opening, then slamming closed a few minutes later. He jogged back to Jack.

“Truck’s dead—and engine parts are missing,” Gray reported. “I’m guessing these guys were trying to fix it before they got caught up in all…that,” he waved his hands toward the snares.

 _“Guys,”_ Riley called. _“Those other trucks are getting closer. They’re about eight miles out.”_

“We take the Army truck,” Jack declared. “Have Matty send a team in to get the bodies out of here.”

Gray nodded. “Hey…uh…World’s Best Hacker,” he said, one hand pressed against his comm.

_“It’s Riley, but…go ahead.”_

“When you reach out to Matty, have her call Bishop Buckley, my boss at the Agency. Tell him about the bodies. He’ll help.”

_“Got it.”_

“Okay,” Gray bent down. “I’ll get him loaded in the back of the Army truck. You ride back there with him in case he crashes on us again. We get him back to the chopper and get him stabilized, then get the hell out of Dodge.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Jack nodded, releasing his hold on Mac as Gray lifted the lanky young man into his arms.

“Jesus, Think Tank,” Gray exhaled as he adjusted his hold on Mac, the kid’s head hanging over Gray’s arm, his arm and legs swinging free. “You’re a mess.”

Jack pushed to his feet, his leg throbbing from where it had been folded under him while he held Mac. He clumsily climbed into the back of the truck and reached back to lift Mac from Gray’s hold, pulling the kid into the back and against him. He sat with his legs stretched out and Mac positioned between them, his head lolling against Jack’s shoulder.

“You set?” Gray asked, clapping one hand on the tailgate of the truck.

“Let’s roll,” Jack replied, wrapping an arm around Mac’s chest.

He heard Gray open the cab door and in moments the engine vibrated beneath him, his body lurching to the side as Gray backed up down the road toward the chain link fence. Mac groaned as Jack tightened his hold.

“Easy, kid,” Jack said softly. “I got you.”

“Not really here…,” Mac rasped, his naturally deep voice a cracked and broken sound.

“What’er you talking about?” Jack grinned, shifted so that he could look at Mac’s face. “I’m right here.”

Mac shivered, pain sweeping his expression, eyes closed. “’m hurting, Jack.”

“I know,” Jack replied, frowning as Mac’s shivering increased. “We’re gonna get you help. You just gotta hang in there for me.”

“Y’keep saying that,” Mac sighed, arching slightly against Jack as if trying to move away from the pain. “Keep…promising to…to find me.”

Jack felt his eyes burn. “I _did_ find you, Mac. C’mon, man, I’m here.”

Mac shuddered, moaning slightly as if the flex of muscles in that motion pulled at something inside of him.

“Isaac.”

 _“I’m here,”_ Gray replied via comms.

“He’s shaking an awful lot,” Jack shifted his grip on Mac so that the other man was tilted against his chest.

_“Seizure?”_

“Naw, like…violent shivering,” Jack described. “And he’s burning up.”

 _“It’s shock,”_ Gray replied. _“Try to elevate his feet above his heart and keep him as warm as you can. Not much further.”_

“Lion…h-hydra, hind…b-boar…,” Mac muttered, turning his face toward Jack, his eyes blinking open but focusing on nothing.

“What’s that?” Jack asked, leaning close, trying to hear. Mac stared at a spot just over Jack’s shoulder with half-lidded eyes. “Mac?”

When another shudder wracked Mac’s too-thin frame, Jack shifted again. Laying Mac down on the floor of the truck, he pulled off his leg brace and slid it under Mac’s ankles, then stretched out alongside Mac, his body flush against his partner’s for warmth, one arm across Mac’s chest.

“You hang in there, bud.”

“Tired,” Mac whispered, his eyes rolling closed, fingers flexing at his sides as though he were reaching for something.

“I know you are, kid. I know, but you can’t give up, okay?”

“Been waiting…waiting for Jack,” Mac muttered, his head rolling with the motion of the truck. “Can hear him, but…he’s not…not here.”

Jack felt tears pool in his eyes, and he tucked Mac closer to him. “You stay with me, Mac. Don’t quit, okay?”

“Stables…b-birds…bull…h-horses…,” Mac murmured.

The seemingly meaningless words had Jack’s worry spiking, his heart hammering against his ribs. What if that head wound had broken something in his partner? Something no amount of reassurance and antibiotics would fix?

“Riley?” Jack sniffed, tears making uneven tracks through the stubble along his jaw.

 _“I’m here,”_ Riley replied, emotion turning her voice thick.

“Need you to do something for me,” Jack said, clearing his throat. “Make sure Matty has a med evac waiting at the hanger.”

 _“On it,”_ Riley replied. _“Shit, Jack—those trucks.”_

“What about them?”

_“They’ve changed course. They’re not headed to the Gates of Hell place…they’re headed your way. Like they’re tracking you.”_

_“God dammit,”_ Gray swore over the comms from the cab of the Army truck. _“I knew I should have checked the bodies. Someone had to have radioed back.”_

 _“Or you’re lojacked,”_ Riley suggested.

“Or…that,” Jack sighed. “How close?”

_“They’re about ten miles behind you, but gaining.”_

_“I can see the chopper,”_ Gray reported.

Jack sat up, pulling Mac against him once more. They had to be ready to move. He checked his weapon; he had three spare clips and he knew Gray had the same. They could be dealing with three guys or an army, he had no idea.

And the one person who could have turned this around for them by making a rocket launcher from the truck’s tailpipe was unconscious in his arms.

Jack pitched backwards when Gray slammed on the brakes. Shoving the canvas flap back, he stuck his head out, scanning their surroundings. All he could see was the edge of the mountain and cluster of trees where Gray had miraculously landed.

Gray came around to the back of the truck, dropping the tailgate and reaching for Mac. As he pulled the young agent toward him, Mac cried out and Jack flinched.

“Sorry, kid,” Gray muttered, “but we gotta move.”

Not waiting for Jack to climb down, Gray continued to pull Mac from the truck, rolling him into his arms and turning toward the chopper. Jack thought there was something incredibly wrong about seeing Mac so lifeless.

Mac was one of those people who only stopped for sleep—and not enough of that. It was as though a constant flow of energy was suddenly muffled and curbed, arms and legs swinging loosely in the desperate grip of the only person around with right knowledge to keep him alive.

Jack staggered ahead of Gray, his leg aching, the muscles quaking from over-use. He hefted himself into the opened side door of the helicopter and reached for Mac, pulling him as carefully as possible from Gray’s arms and laying him on the backboard they’d strapped into the belly of the helicopter.

Mac cried out again from the motion, his breathing harsh, erratic.

“Tell…tell Jack…the girls,” he rasped, cracked lips trembling. “The girls….”

Jack stroked the side of Mac’s face, trying to soothe him. “You told us, man,” he said. “You did real good.”

Mac’s breath hitched and he arched his back slightly with a pained cry. “Nnngggghhh—can’t go…,” he panted, head twisting to the side. He had some idea of his surroundings, Jack realized. “Gotta… _mmmrphh_ …. Gotta wait for ‘im….”

“We gotcha, man,” Jack sniffed, tears choking him as he watched Mac shiver from pain. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Gray was next to him, pulling Mac’s shirt up, the med kit opened beside him. Jack hadn’t even noticed him move, he was that focused on Mac’s misery. Gray pulled a knee up and rested his elbow on it, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Jack had a sudden flash of memory: Gray using honey to seal the wound on Mac’s side left behind by an arrow, the man’s training as a field medic coming back to him en force.

“What do we need to do?”

Gray looked over at Jack and the helpless despair his blue eyes was so raw Jack felt himself draw back.

“He won’t make it through the flight back,” Gray said, dragging his hand down his face.

“What?” Jack felt the blood drain from his face.

“Not like this,” Gray clarified. “I gotta stabilize him—try to clean out that wound, get some fluids into him.”

“So do it!”

“And, what?” Gray challenged, ripping Mac’s ragged shirt open. “Leave you to fight off the Mexican Cartel alone?”

“I’ve had worse odds,” Jack challenged.

“Jack,” Mac gasped, eyes rolling wildly beneath his closed lids, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “Where…where are you….”

Twisting so that he was hovering over MacGyver, Jack put both hands on either side of his partner’s face.

“Mac,” he said quietly, his voice steady and stern. “Open your eyes. Right now.” He ignored the heat rolling off of Mac’s skin, ignored the constant tremble of muscles he could feel coursing through Mac’s body and placed his whole focus on Mac’s face. “Angus. You listen to me, now. Open those eyes and look at me.”

As though pulled by a force stronger than any pain, Mac opened his eyes. His pupils were blown wide, the whites bloodshot, but for the first time since he’d fallen over the edge of that platform, he looked awake. Jack watched as his pupils narrowed in recognition, felt the slight gasp as Mac’s body reacted to seeing Jack.

“Jack?” Mac reached up a trembling hand and curled his fingers along the edge of Jack’s TAC vest.

“I am _here_ , and I am _real_ ,” Jack said. He stared right at Mac, willing the kid’s pain-soaked, fevered, ginormous brain to believe him. He moved his thumbs beneath Mac’s eyes, not removing his hand. “You feel me? Feel this?” Mac blinked, his fingers curling tighter in the vest. “I’m _here_.”

“Found me,” Mac rasped.

“You bet your ass I did,” Jack replied, blinking. A tear fell onto Mac’s face, but the younger man didn’t seem to notice. “I made you a promise, kid. I am with you. Every step of the way.”

“Was afraid…,” Mac’s brows pulled together, pain shuddering through him. “Thought you…were dead.”

“I’m right here, okay? And I’m gonna get you out of here,” Jack nodded, easing back slightly and watching as Mac’s eyes shifted to take in Gray. “But I need you to stay strong, okay? Just for a little longer.”

Mac closed his eyes, lids sliding shut as if they weighed a hundred pounds.

“Mac?”

“’kay,” Mac whispered, his fingers going lax and falling from Jack’s vest.

Gray leaned over quickly and felt for a pulse, nodding with relief when he found one.

“What’s the plan?” Jack asked.

“How far are those trucks?” Gray asked.

 _“I’m getting interference from the mountains,”_ Riley said, _“but it looks like maybe eight-ish miles.”_

“Okay,” Gray nodded, taking a breath. “I’m gonna need you to hold him down while I clean this out, then we’ll get an IV into him and…hopefully that will stabilize him enough to make it back.”

“Hopefully?” Jack snapped. “You’re a medic, for Christ’s sake!”

“ _Was_ a medic!” Gray returned. “And there’s only so much I can do, Jack. He needs a hospital; all I’ve got is a fucking first aid kit!”

_“Guys, the trucks—“_

“All right!” Jack shouted, sweeping his hand through the air like a director cutting off sound. He took a breath, calming his voice. “All right. I got it. We do it your way. But set your weapon and extra clips there by the door.”

“What for?”

“So I can make sure you get this chopper off the ground and get my partner home,” Jack replied, leveling his eyes on Gray.

Swallowing, Gray nodded. He pulled open Mac’s shirt, exposing his narrow chest, the lean musculature further defined by the lack of fat anywhere on his frame. The inflamed gash ran along Mac’s side just beneath his ribcage—opposite of the scar left behind by the arrow Gray had helped repair before.

“One of these days, kid,” Gray muttered, eyeing Mac’s wound, “I’m going to see you when you’re not wrecked all to hell.”

“What do you need me to do?” Jack asked, one hand resting on Mac’s shoulder.

“Be ready to hold him down—keep him with us,” Gray replied. “His pulse is fast, his color is for shit. These red marks running along his sides and across his belly indicate the infection has gotten into his blood stream. Low blood pressure is common with sepsis—and that’s probably why he crashed on us earlier.”

Jack nodded, only moderately aware that he was rubbing Mac’s head soothingly.

“See this here?” Gray pointed to the swollen, blood-crusted skin around the raised, swollen wound. “I need to open this up and try to get some of the infection out. And…it’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“Let’s get it over with,” Jack muttered, resting his hands on Mac’s shoulders as Gray began to sterilize the small knife from the med kit.

“Talk to him, Jack,” Gray encouraged. “Clearly he hears your voice even when you’re not around. Let him know you’re here.”

“Easy, bud,” Jack said softly, watching over his shoulder as Gray poured hydrogen peroxide over the wound, gently wiping the edges with a clean cloth. Mac flinched slightly at the sensation but didn’t open his eyes. “I know you’ve probably felt pretty lost,” Jack continued, nodding back at Gray as the man prepared to open the wound. “But, you’re not alone anymore.”

Jack didn’t watch what Gray did to cut away the infected area, but he knew the moment it happened. Mac’s eyes flew open and the scream wrecked what was left of his voice, tapering and ending on a helpless sob, pleading for relief.

“Stop… _please_ ….” Mac pushed at the arms holding him down, reached for the source of his pain.

“Easy,” Jack soothed, grabbing Mac’s flailing hands and holding them against his chest. “I gotcha kid, I have you.”

“Almost done, Jack,” Gray said softly.

“He’s shaking so much,” Jack returned, tossing his voice over his shoulder.

“I know,” Gray replied. “His system is overloaded.”

Mac turned his head to the side, gritting his teeth, his jaw tight enough Jack saw a muscle dance over the bone. The sound of anguish held in by sheer will broke Jack’s heart. He released one of Mac’s hands to grip his narrow shoulder.

“You’re doing great, Mac,” Jack told him. He frowned when he felt Mac’s chest still. “Just breathe, okay. Mac. Mac? Hey, _breathe_ , man.” He gave Mac’s shoulder a slight shake. “I’m not going anywhere, Mac. One easy breath. You can do it.”

A raw gasp for air rattled the interior of the helicopter.

“That’s it, there you go,” Jack soothed, releasing his other hand to hold his partner’s shoulders. He kept his eyes on Mac’s face, watching for any sign of actual awareness.

“Hold him, Jack,” Gray warned, just before he poured more hydrogen peroxide into the seeping wound.

“Arrrggghhh!” Mac screamed, his hands coming up to grab at Jack’s arms, fingers curling into fists of Jack’s shirt as he pressed his head back, neck arching up. Jack bit his lip as he saw tears slip free of Mac’s tightly closed eyes, tracking down his temples and burying themselves in his hair.

“No more,” Mac panted. “No more.”

“That’s it for now,” Gray said from behind Jack.

From the corner of his eyes, Jack saw Gray dump several rags covered in blood and something else Jack didn’t want to think about out of the opened door of the helicopter.

“No more, kid,” Jack whispered, wiping the tears from Mac’s face with the pads of his thumbs. He smoothed his hair from his face. “You did great, Mac. It’s done, okay? It’s done.”

“I’m just going to cover it, then start his IV—“

 _“Jack!”_ Riley’s voice cut through Gray’s words. _“The trucks—“_

“Oh shit,” Jack straightened from where he’d been crouched over Mac.

Three trucks pulled through the protection of trees and were headed right for them. Jack released Mac, trying to ignore the residual gasps for air as the younger man shook beneath his hands. He scrambled around the backboard where Mac lay as fast as his leg would allow and grabbed his weapon with one hand, reaching for the ammo Gray tossed his way with the other.

“I’ll hold them off long as I can,” Jack said, swinging his legs over the edge of the helicopter, putting his body between the approaching trucks and his wounded partner. “You get Mac out of here.”

_“Stop!”_

Both Jack and Gray jerked to a halt in reaction to the new voice.

“Matty?!” Jack bleated.

 _“Do not engage with those trucks, Agent Dalton,”_ Matty ordered.

“What the hell are you—“

 _“Jack, it’s the Mexican Army,”_ Riley interrupted. _“Not the Cartel.”_

Jack blinked, looking from Gray to the trucks, then back. “Say again?”

 _“Remember that $100,000 donation I told you about?”_ Matty said. _“Well, it paid off.”_

The trucks stopped just short of their borrowed vehicle. Jack and Gray slid out of the helicopter and stood, rifles in ready position, eyes on the men climbing from the cabs of the trucks.

 _“I informed my contact that El Noche has a secret compound where they could find a sizable amount of cocaine, if they were interested,”_ Matty continued. _“Between that, and some…let’s call it ‘encouragement’ from Agent Buckley at the CIA, they decided they were.”_

“So…why are they chasing us?” Jack demanded.

 _“They’re not,”_ Riley said, relief turning her voice soft. _“They want their truck back.”_

Jack watched as two men walked up to the truck they’d used to get to the helicopter and paused, saying something in Spanish.

 _“They’re asking for the keys,”_ Riley translated.

“I left ‘em in the cab,” Gray replied, nodding toward the truck, clearly hoping the man got his meaning.

“Matty,” Jack said suddenly, “that report about human contraband wasn’t false. There are girls—“

 _“Riley told me,”_ Matty said, regret turning her voice heavy. _“I have reassurance that the Mexican Army will identify them and return them to their families for a proper burial.”_

“You trust that?” Jack asked.

 _“I have to, Jack,”_ Matty replied. _“Now, how about we let the Mexican Army deal with El Noche and you get our boy home.”_

“Are you at the hanger?” Jack asked, watching as the men climbed into the cab of the spare vehicle and started it up.

 _“No,”_ Matty replied.

“Well, we are going to need authorization to get Mac to the closest hospital to that hanger, Matty,” Jack informed her. “He’s barely hanging on.”

 _“You’ll get it,”_ Matty promised.

 _“Jack?”_ Riley called as Jack watched the four trucks turn around and drive away. _“Just come back, okay?”_

“On our way, kiddo,” Jack replied, turning to the chopper.

He glanced at Gray as the other man climbed inside and reached for the IV bag, tubing, and catheter stashed away in the med kit.

“Do you believe that just happened?”

Gray huffed. “When it comes to hanging out with you, Dalton, nothing much surprises me.” He picked up Mac’s arm, running his fingers over the inside, frowning. “Damn, he’s dehydrated. His veins are shit.”

He finally ended up inserted the needle into the back of Mac’s hand.

“Kid never does things in halves,” Jack said, climbing back into the chopper and reaching for the rescue blanket.

Once Gray had Mac’s wound bandaged and the IV started, Jack covered Mac with the blanket and strapped him to the board.

“Isaac,” Jack reached up to grab Gray’s wrist as he made his way to the pilot’s seat. Gray looked back at him. “Is he going to make it?”

Gray looked past Jack to Mac’s shivering form. “He’s tough,” he said, “but he’s got a fight ahead of him.”

Jack released Gray’s wrist and looked back at Mac. “This kid’s nothing if not a fighter,” he said softly, situating himself next to Mac’s head and pulling his IV-free hand out from beneath the blankets. “You keep swinging, Mac,” he said softly, stroking Mac’s hair away from his head. “I’ll be right beside you.”

Jack’s stomach dipped slightly as Gray lifted off, angling away from the sea, flying over the Gates of Hell as he headed back to the States. He wanted to feel relief, a sense of completion, some level of joy that Mac was alive, that he’d found him. That he’d been right.

But looking down at Mac’s thinned-out face, pale skin marred by a wound and jaw edged with week-old scruff, all Jack felt was a sense of loss. And a very real fear that getting Mac home was only half the battle.

“How’s he doing?” Gray called back.

“He’s still breathing,” Jack replied. He gripped Mac’s hand tighter, whispering, “He’s still breathing.”

**

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Los Angeles Children’s Hospital, ICU**

**Closest hospital to the hanger**

**1 day since rescue**

_-Jack again-_

He didn’t move from his chair next to Mac’s bed.

Every once in a while, he’d shift his weight, adjusting the angle of his wounded leg on the recliner Riley had snagged for him. But mostly he just watched Mac’s restless sleep and listened to the _hum-swish_ of the oxygen, the clicking of the IV pump, and the ever-present murmur of voices outside of the room they occupied.

Mac coughed weakly, his breath fogging up the oxygen mask fitted over his nose and mouth. It was slightly tilted due to the NG tube inserted to provide the much-needed nutrients to his depleted system. Jack tensed slightly at the sound, eyes tracking the IVs inserted to provide antibiotics and hydration. There was tube inserted into Mac’s side, draining the infection from his wound, and a cardiac monitor stuck to his chest.

When Mac didn’t stir further, Jack sat back, dragging a hand down his face. He was exhausted, but every time he tried to sleep, he relived the moment Mac stopped breathing, the moment he’d practically crushed the kid’s chest in his desperation to bring him back to life. Since Gray landed the chopper back at the out-of-the-way hanger, Jack was fairly certain he’d experienced every human emotion roughly twenty times.

He was wrung out.

Mac had crashed once more in the ambulance, forcing them to divert to the closest hospital to the hanger—which, as it happened, was the Los Angeles Children’s Hospital—rather than the Phoenix Foundation medical facility. Jack didn’t think he’d ever erase the image of his partner’s body arching and dropping in reaction to the charges slamming his system from the defibrillator paddles. Matty had called in the cavalry—almost literally—and had a room at the Children’s Hospital sectioned off with guards stationed within an hour of their arrival.

Once they’d stabilized Mac’s blood pressure and started a bolus of high-powered antibiotics, they’d carted him off for an MRI, Jack limping behind and hovering in the control room ready to talk through the mic and soothe Mac if need be. Mac had been basically non-responsive through most of the treatments until they slid him into the MRI chamber and Jack was willing to swear the magnetic imagining of the machine ignited something in his partner’s brain.

Though unable to move due to the padded restraints the technicians—who were accustomed to dealing with terrified children, rather than unconscious adults—had applied, Mac moaned in fear or discomfort. Jack watched on the monitor as his partner’s face twisted into an expression of someone much younger than his twenty-seven years.

_“Lion…h-hydra…hind…b-boar…,”_ Mac began muttering, the stuttered, frantic whisper picked up through the mic into the control room.

Jack rubbed the heel of his hand against his aching head. There was something broken inside the kid, and it was all his fault. If he’d only remembered sooner, gotten there quicker….

“Huh,” the MRI tech mused aloud as he continued to type commands into the computer.

Frowning, Jack glanced down at the red-haired man. “He’s been mumbling that off and on since we found him.”

The tech looked over his shoulder at Jack as though surprised to find him standing there.

_“Stables…birds…b-bull…,”_ Mac continued in the background, the words slurred and soft.

“Well?”

“Well what?” the tech asked.

“That gibberish mean something to you?” Jack pressed, impatient.

_“Horses…Cerberus….”_

“Well, yeah,” the tech shrugged, turning back to the machine. “It’s the trials of Hercules.”

Jack blinked in surprise, watching on the monitor as Mac’s face went tight when the machine roared to life, a series of loud, metallic clicks filtering through the speakers.

“Hercules?”

“Sure,” the tech said, tipping his head. “Last trial of Hercules was capturing the three-headed dog who guarded—“

“The gates of Hell,” Jack finished. “Yeah, I’m, uh…I’m familiar.”

“It’s interesting,” the tech continued, fingers flying over the keyboard in what looked like an almost automated procedure.

Jack felt his eyebrows meet his hairline. He was so not in the mood for drawing out information from a distracted brainiac. Unless it was the brainiac currently strapped down inside a large, white tube.

“What’s interesting about it?” he asked, his tone one of dangerously measured patience.

The tech picked up on the tone and looked back over his shoulder at Jack. “Just that…I’ve seen a technique like this used for people with PTSD.”

“Naming the trials of Hercules?” Jack asked, drawing his head back in disbelief.

The tech chuffed slightly. “Well, not that specifically,” he continued to monitor the progress of the machine. “But repeating things. Y’know, like…streets they lived on, or names of their pets, or parts of a weapon, that kind of thing. Something about the repetitive nature of it is…grounding. Calming, I guess.”

Jack took a slow, deep breath.

Maybe Mac wasn’t as broken as Jack thought. _What other brain would use Greek mythology to keep from panicking?_ Jack wondered. Maybe they were going to get out of this after all.

The door to the control room opened and Jack looked over, blinking in surprise once more.

“Dr. Banner?”

“Jack,” Banner nodded once at him.

“What the hell are you doing here, man?”

Banner’s eyes shifted from Jack to the viewing window, then to the monitor collecting the data from Mac’s head.

“Need to look you over,” Banner replied.

Jack shook his head, crossing his arms and turning back to face the window. “I’m not leaving him.”

“This is going to take a while,” the tech offered, “and no offence, but…you look dead on your feet.”

Jack narrowed his eyes at the tech. “Nobody asked you.”

“Jack,” Banner stepped into the room. “Let me check your leg. I’ll take you to your partner’s room the minute I’m done.”

Jack felt his body sway with exhaustion. Mac had stopped muttering on the mic and the tech was culling data left and right.

“Fine,” he sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”

As it turned out, his rescue mission had done a bit of damage to his barely-healed muscles, enough so that Banner was forced to repair some stitches and put him in a brace that he couldn’t get out of without help. He was also forced to use crutches under threat of a wheelchair and ordered to stay off the leg completely for at least forty-eight hours.

This prompted Riley to find him a recliner—which was unsurprisingly not that hard in a hospital organized around worried parents staying with their children—and set it up out of the way of the machines and tubes, but close enough he could reach out and touch Mac if he had to.

Matty had sent Riley and Bozer home; it had been a while since either of them had slept. She’d tried the same with Jack as they’d stood at the foot of Mac’s bed, guards posted outside the room, Jack leaning on his crutches.

“You need to rest,” Matty argued.

“I’m not leaving him, Matty,” Jack replied, not taking his eyes from Mac’s pale face.

There was a frightening leanness to MacGyver’s features—not just brought on by a week of low-cal MREs, but something worse. Something almost fragile. As though he could just slip away from them all if someone wasn’t watching.

“Jack, listen, he’s getting the best care—“

Jack turned and looked down at her. “No.”

With a sigh, Matty acquiesced, sharing the information the doctors had given her. “He’s fighting, Jack. But it’s going to be a hard road.”

Jack clenched his jaw, looking back at MacGyver’s still form.

“Gray was right; septicemia set in. They’re giving him the strongest antibiotics available, draining the wound, giving him nutrition, but honestly…it’s going to be up to Mac.”

“He didn’t survive on his own and wounded for _five days_ ,” he paused, needing a breath, “just to die on me now.”

Matty was quiet for a moment. “You’re right, Jack,” she conceded. “Nobody but Baby Einstein could have done what he did.”

“You got that right,” Jack replied, his eyes not leaving the rise and fall of Mac’s chest.

“Let us know if you need anything,” she entreated, then left him alone with his partner.

* * *

He jerked awake, his neck stiff from sleeping in the recliner.

It took him a disoriented minute to figure out where he was and what had woken him, but then he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. His hand automatically went to his hip—and the gun that wasn’t there—before he recentered on his current reality: hospital, Mac, machines.

“Agent Dalton, you’re okay,” came a soft voice next to his chair.

He turned and focused on the careworn face of a nurse who looked startlingly like his mother.

“My name is Katherine and I’ll be taking care of you two through the night.”

“You mean, you’ll be taking care of Mac,” Jack rasped, clearing the sleep from his voice and sitting up straighter in the chair.

“Of course,” she smiled, and it was only then that Jack realized she’d positioned herself strategically so that she was between him and MacGyver’s bed.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just need you to stay where you are; don’t put further stress on your leg,” Katherine said calmly.

Jack couldn’t reach the recliner handle without pushing her out of the way so he tried to sit up further in the chair to see around her. There were three other people in the room, one clearly a doctor.

“What’s wrong with Mac?”

Katherine rested a hand on his shoulder, causing the needle on his worry meter to bury itself in the red.

“His fever spiked,” she told him, her voice still measured. “We are adjusting the antibiotic dosage.”

“And that takes three people?” Jack challenged.

“We also needed to adjust the wound drain, and we’re…trying to get his blood pressure stabilized,” she explained.

“Meaning you’re trying to keep him from crashing again,” Jack translated.

Katherine paused, then nodded. “The biggest threat with sepsis—especially for someone as lean as Agent MacGyver—is low blood pressure. It’s often what the patient isn’t able to overcome.”

“I need to get up,” Jack told her, trying to shoulder her out of the way.

“Agent Dalton, you’re not—“

Jack grabbed her hand, surprising her enough she looked directly at him. “Katherine. Help me up. I need to see him.”

For a heartbeat, Katherine simply blinked at him. Then, apparently deciding that at this point it couldn’t hurt, she helped lower the leg rest and eased him up from the chair so that he could hobble over to Mac’s bed. One of the nurses moved the IV pump to the head of the bed, making room for Jack.

He swallowed hard when he caught sight of his partner. They’d cleaned the blood and dirt away earlier when they’d bandaged his head wound, but the blond scruff of beard still framed his jaw, giving him a wild look. His cheekbones were more prominent and his eyes appeared sunken and bruised. But the thing that shook Jack most was the complete lack of color. Mac was so pale he practically blended in with the pillow.

His breathing was rapid and raspy, the oxygen mask pulled to the side as the doctor examined him. Jack’s eyes darted to the monitor next to Mac’s bed and saw that they’d apparently muted the alarms because all kinds of things were flashing a warning as Mac’s pulse, blood pressure, and heart rate were all tracked.

“Hey, bud,” Jack greeted, shifting his hip up on the bed, careful not to bump the wound drain or any of the IV or cardiac lines.

Mac groaned, almost as if in response to Jack’s voice. The doctor put the oxygen mask back in place; the plastic immediately clouded with Mac’s gasping breaths. The doctor said something to the woman beside him, who nodded, and prepared a syringe, injecting it into the port on one of Mac’s IVs.

“What’s that?”

“We’re trying a different antibiotic,” the doctor replied. “The infection has stopped responding to the Cipro.”

“Stopped responding?”

Katherine put her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “His fever is spiking because the infection is moving through his blood stream too rapidly,” she said. “The drain isn’t enough to pull it from his body.”

“So what are you saying?” Jack frowned, looking back down at Mac when the younger man moaned in evident pain, his neck arching weakly away from the pillow.

“We’re saying it’s up to him,” the doctor said. “We are doing all we can, but he’s been through a lot—“

“Naw, uh-uh,” Jack shook his head. “You don’t know this kid, Doc.”

“I understand your desire for him to beat this,” Katherine tried again, her hand not leaving Jack’s shoulder, “but he’s in a lot of pain, and there’s only so much we can do.”

“Forget it.” Jack shrugged off her hand and then took Mac’s lax hand in his own, grimacing at the heat he felt there. “Hey, Mac, you listening to me, bud? You hearing me? You gotta to keep fighting, Mac.”

“Trying.”

The rasp was muffled and more of a breath than a word, but it snapped the five heads hovering around the bed in the same direction.

“Was that…?” Katherine asked, surprise clear in her voice.

“Jack.” Breath clouded the oxygen mask, the only evidence of Mac having spoken.

“I’m right here, bud.”

“You coming…t’get me?”

Jack felt his face fold as he swallowed the knot of tears that tried to choke him, the sting of emotion pressing against the backs of his eyes. “I got you, Mac.”

Mac groaned a bit, shifting restlessly in the bed, clearly in pain. Jack felt the hand in his tremble, the skin dry from the heat burning through it.

“The bruising on his brain from his concussion will cause some disorientation,” the doctor said. “For a while, it may be hard for him to discern between what’s happening now and what’s in his mind.”

“Real or not real, huh?” Jack asked. “Yeah, I read that book, too, Doc.”

The doctor looked at him, clearly confused.

“Jack…the girls….”

Jack tightened his grip on Mac’s hand. “You told us, bud. They’re…, uh…they’re going home.”

Mac’s hand flexed in his, fingers curling around Jack’s palm. The nurse near Mac’s head began to take his blood pressure, ignoring the machine. Jack saw her frown of concentration and decided to try a different tactic.

“You think you can open your eyes for me, Mac?”

“Agent Dalton, I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” the doctor told him. “He’s suffering severe head trauma, not to mention a 104 degree fever—“

Mac turned his head toward Jack’s voice.

“C’mon, bud. Show me those baby blues.”

To the surprise of everyone in the room except Jack, Mac blinked his eyes open.

“There you are,” Jack grinned.

“You’re here?” Mac asked, confusion pulling his brows low.

“Naw, man. You’re _here_ ,” Jack squeezed Mac’s hand. “Hauled your skinny ass outta Cerberus.”

“You found me,” Mac whispered, his body seeming to visibly relax against the pillows. “Knew you’d find me.”

“I’m sorry it took so long, kid,” Jack confessed.

Mac just blinked at him a moment. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack smiled. “I’m okay.”

“You were…bleeding so much,” Mac said, frowning.

“You fixed me up, though,” Jack reassured him, glancing up at the nurse who had been checking Mac’s blood pressure. She met his eyes with a reassuring smile. “You did good, Mac. You made it out of there.”

“How are you…?” Mac blinked slowly. “Are you…really here?”

When Mac was angry, or when he’s been woken up from a nightmare, Jack remembered, his eyes seemed to go blank—like something behind them is misfiring. He looked that way now, staring at Jack as though he momentarily lost the plot and was trying to recenter himself.

Jack tightened his hold on Mac’s hand, recalling the words he’d said to his friend in the helicopter. “You feel this, man? You feel me?”

Mac nodded, the oxygen mask slipping a little.

“I’m _real_ , man. I’m real and I’m with you and I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying _right here_ , okay?”

Mac exhaled slowly, his eyes closing. “’kay.”

Jack felt his friend slip over the edge of consciousness into sleep. He looked up at the doctor and nurse on the other side of the bed and felt himself sink with relief at the smiles on their faces.

“Doc?”

“His blood pressure has stabilized,” the doctor replied. “We’ve seen this before with kids here—when their parents talk to them, hold their hands, connect with them. Their vitals improve.”

Jack looked back down at Mac’s face, watching the oxygen mask cloud up with his even breaths.

“I ain’t his dad, Doc,” he said softly. “But…he’s my family.”

“Well, based on what I just saw,” the doctor replied, dropping his hands into the pockets of his lab coat, “with family like this in his corner, your partner has a really good chance of pulling through this.”

* * *

“Have you ever done this before?” Blue eyes narrowed with worry and not a little suspicion.

“Not on someone else.”

“Maybe I should….”

“Hold still, and no talking,” Jack admonished. “This ain’t as easy as you’d think.”

“Well, if you’d just let me—“

“Oh, right,” Jack scoffed. “You can barely hold a cup; you think I’m giving you a blade? You’d cut your own throat.”

Mac frowned and Jack pulled the razor away from his shaving cream-covered jaw.

“I’m serious, now,” Jack scolded. “Hold still.”

Mac sighed and fixed his eyes on the ceiling, patiently obeying as Jack continued to shave off the week-old beard.

“Glad to see that finally coming off,” Riley commented from the doorway of the hospital room. “The hipster look’s not a good one on you.”

Mac obliged Jack’s scowl by waiting until Jack was sloughing off the shaving cream from the razor in a bowl of water at the side of the bed before he grinned at Riley.

“I was seriously wondering if the man bun was next,” Bozer said from behind her, his voice lighting up Mac’s eyes for the first time since he’d genuinely woken up earlier that day. “I mean a mullet, sure….”

“Hey guys,” Mac greeted, the NG tube making his voice rough and raspy.

He reached up a hand and Bozer grasped it in a thumb-to-thumb grip before letting Mac fold his arm across his torso like a protective shield.

“Good to see you, Mac,” Riley said, flanking Bozer. “It’s been boring as hell at the office without you. I keep catching Matty eyeing the paperclip bowl like she might try her hand at one of those…bendy figures.”

Mac chuckled appreciatively, turning his eyes into a mess of lashes and laugh lines.

Jack felt a twist in his chest at the sight, something in him having been afraid he’d never see that again. He gently pushed Mac’s head back with a finger to the bridge of his nose, and continued to finish removing the remaining beard until his partner was once more clean shaven.

“Better?” Jack asked as he wiped the remnants of shaving cream from the creases at Mac’s ears.

“Much,” Mac replied, this time turning his smile toward Jack. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it,” Jack said, gathering up the bowl and towel. “I’m serious. Word gets out that I’m such a softy, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Right, because _that’s_ a big secret,” Riley teased, coming around to the other side of the bed and taking the shaving supplies from Jack so that he didn’t have to navigate not spilling the bowl of water while staying off of his leg.

“How you feeling, man?” Bozer asked.

Mac frowned, looking down at his lap. Jack half expected him to go with the usual _fine_ or _I’m good_ that he always threw out after a mission took his legs out from under him, but this time he simply stared at his lap, his forehead folded in thought.

“Y’know, sometimes,” Jack said, shifting to find a more comfortable position for his leg, “you get this crazy look on your face like you should have a big ol’ thought bubble over top of your head.”

Mac glanced up at him and for a moment his walls were completely transparent. Jack caught his breath. In that instance, he saw exactly what that week at Cerberus had done to his friend, and his heart thumped painfully.

“A thought bubble, huh?” Mac finally replied. “Yeah, that might help.”

“What’s up, Mac?” Bozer asked, his voice softening. “You okay?”

“I don’t know, Boze,” Mac replied, vulnerability he so rarely showed turning his voice soft. “Things get mixed up sometimes.”

“Mixed up…how?” Bozer pressed.

“Like…,” Mac picked at a loose thread on his blanket as if he couldn’t keep his hands still, the IV tubes attached to his arm making a dull _thud_ against the bed rail with the motion.

It made Jack want to find him some paperclips.

“Sometimes I, uh…I can’t figure out if I’m really here, or if this is a dream. ‘Cause it all…it all kinda folds together in my head, and I just…,” Mac shrugged helplessly, rolling his bottom lip against his teeth.

Jack saw Bozer bring his head up in surprise at Mac’s confession, but it had been something he’d suspected since the helicopter ride.

“I heard you,” Mac continued, softly. Almost as if he were afraid of the words turning to ash if he let them escape.

“Who, me?” Bozer asked, his voice cracking slightly with his struggle to act like nothing Mac was saying scared the shit out of him.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Mac looked at Jack, his whole being focused in that contact. “But mostly you, Jack.”

“You heard me, huh?”

“You talked to me the whole time,” Mac said, curling his trembling hands into fists at his sides. “You…warned me about danger and…and you promised you’d come get me…and you told me to hang in there. To stay strong.”

“Well, I did come get you,” Jack reminded him. “And you did stay strong.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Mac looked down at the bed again. “I don’t feel strong.”

“You got the hell beat out of you, kid,” Jack reminded him, his eyes tracking to the NG tube, thinking about the wound drain. “It’s going to take a bit for you to feel like you can take on the world again.”

Mac just nodded.

The room seemed to shrink around the awkward silence that followed and Jack almost breathed a sigh of relief when a new nurse came in and said it was time to check Mac’s vitals. Riley and Bozer said they were going to grab coffee and would be back. Jack shifted back to his chair, watching as Mac fell asleep before the nurse was done checking the machines.

* * *

“This isn’t going to be pleasant; maybe you should go grab a coffee.”

Jack looked past the doctor’s shoulder and met his friend’s eyes. Mac had made it through another night with a temperature hovering around 101 and they were ready to remove the NG tube and get him on regular food. He looked anxious, but Jack honestly couldn’t tell if it was because of the procedure or because Jack was watching.

“What do you say, kid?”

“I’ll be okay,” Mac reassured him.

Jack nodded. “Okay then,” he grabbed his crutches, “I could use some caffeine.”

He made his way out of the room and started down the hall, only just realizing he had no idea where he was going. He stopped in the middle of the hall and looked around him, noticing for the first time the windows of the other ICU rooms papered with images of the Avengers and Disney princesses.

“Agent Dalton?”

He looked to his right. “Katherine.”

“Can I help you?”

“They’re removing Mac’s NG tube,” he offered, his voice trailing off.

Katherine grimaced, but then her face smoothed out. “That means he’s getting stronger; that’s a good sign.”

“I was going to grab some coffee, but I….”

“How about I walk with you?” Katherine offered, smiling and linking her arm in his around his crutch. “I was about to go on break anyway.”

Jack smiled, reminded of his mother once again. They made their way to the elevator and then to the cafeteria. Katherine made him sit—couching it as his “saving them a table”—and grabbed coffee and pie for each of them.

“You’re a life saver,” Jack said, letting the caffeine hit his system.

“I’m in the right profession, then,” she smiled.

Jack was quiet a moment. “He had a nightmare last night,” he said suddenly. “When I got him to wake up he…uh, he didn’t know where he was. Wasn’t sure if I was real. Again.”

“Did they show you his MRI?” Katherine asked.

Jack shook his head.

“Your partner is an extremely strong man, Agent Dalton,” Katherine told him, letting a soft hand rest on his wrist. “His brain is bruised—pretty decent amount of damage. Now, most people would be unconscious or experience some sort of amnesiatic episode immediately after a wound like that, but I heard your Director Webber tell his doctor that he saved your life—and went on to survive several days alone.”

Jack nodded, feeling tears press once more. “That he did.”

“Add to that the trauma of the infection and sepsis, and some disorientation is honestly…well, _normal_ is an odd word to say in this situation, but…normal.”

“You sure?” Jack winced when he heard his voice break.

“I’m sure,” Katherine replied.

“He’s definitely strong,” Jack sniffed, his eyes burning. “If you knew the things he’s survived and overcome…I mean, I thought _I_ was tough, y’know?” He looked up at Katherine. “Delta Force trained, multiple tours, sniper overwatch, enough confirmed kills to make me an official bad ass in the eyes of my unit…but then I meet this scrawny nineteen-year-old and….” He wiped at the tears with the heels of his hands, unsure why he suddenly couldn’t stop them from flowing.

“People come into our lives for all kinds of reasons,” Katherine said, squeezing his wrist. “Maybe Agent MacGyver came into yours to remind you who you are.”

Jack sniffed, looking at her through the blur of tears. “Who _I_ am?”

She smiled. “You not just a bad ass,” she said, tilting her head. “You’re a protector. And you have one of biggest hearts I’ve ever seen.”

Jack huffed a weak laugh through his tears. “Yeah, that’s me. Ol’ softie.”

“Nothing wrong with having emotions, Jack,” Katherine said, patting his wrist. “They keep us human.”

When Jack got back to Mac’s room, he was asleep. The NG tube had been removed and Mac was curled slightly on his side, which he couldn’t have been if the wound drain was still in, so that was another positive sign. Jack sank down into his chair, setting the crutches aside and leaned forward, elbows on knees, to regard his young partner.

“Okay if I come in?”

Jack looked up, surprised by the new voice. “Gray?”

Isaac Gray walked into the room, a small box held loosely in his hand. “Your girl, uh…Riley?”

Jack nodded.

“She directed me up here.”

Jack watched as Gray made his way to the side of Mac’s bed.

“He looks….” Gray tilted his head. “Younger.”

“Shaved the beard,” Jack said, pitching his voice low.

“That’s it,” Gray nodded. He set the box down on the tray next to Mac’s bed. Glancing at Jack, he shrugged sheepishly. “Paperclips,” he said. “It was that or duct tape, but after I saw how he kept that wound covered, I figured he wasn’t going to be excited about that anytime soon.”

“Probably not.”

Mac flinched, then turned from his side to his back in his sleep, a soft groan slipping out. Jack tensed, watching.

“How’s he doing?” Gray asked, his voice still low enough Jack had to lean forward to hear him.

“He’s…better,” Jack said. “Gotta admit, though. I was worried.”

“Yeah, me, too,” Gray confessed.

Mac groaned again, turning his head back toward Jack. “Lion…hydra….”

“Dammit,” Jack pushed to his feet and hobbled over to the side of the bed. “Mac,” he said softly, resting a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Hey, kid. Go on, wake up.”

“Stables…birds…bull….”

“What’s he saying?”

“He’s been doing this thing,” Jack said. “Like a…mantra.”

“Horses…Cerberus….”

“Cerberus?” Gray questioned, a strange expression on his face.

“C’mon, Mac,” Jack shook him harder. “You’re okay. Go ahead and wake up, now.”

Mac’s eyes shot open at that, his breath suddenly rapid, his hands flat against the bed as though trying to stop the world from spinning too fast.

“Jack.”

“Right here.”

“There’s a truck….”

Jack leaned over, grasping Mac by both shoulders and forcing the younger man to meet his eyes. “Hey? You with me?”

Mac blinked. “Y-yeah…yes. Yeah, I’m here.”

“You remember where you are?”

“H-hospital.”

Jack nodded. “And I’m here, sitting next to you. Real or not real?”

Mac swallowed, dropping his head back against the bed. “Real.”

“Atta boy,” Jack smiled, releasing his shoulders. “We got company.”

Mac’s eyes slid to the side and Jack watched as his expression shifted from anxious to surprised to relieved. It wasn’t too hard for Jack to track MacGyver’s line of thinking: Gray had not visited him back at Cerberus and therefore Jack was definitely real.

“Isaac?”

Gray smiled, the light of it hitting his eyes. “Hey, Think Tank.”

“You…how did you…?”

“What, you don’t remember me carrying your skinny ass to a broken-down chopper in the middle of the Mexican wilderness?” Gray teased.

“I, uh…I don’t. I’m sorry,” Mac frowned. “But thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Gray smiled. “Seriously. I wasn’t supposed to be there, so….”

“You really came through for us, man,” Jack acknowledge. “I don’t know where we’d be, if—“

“Hey, I owed you. And anyway…you two chuckleheads have kind of grown on me.”

Mac coughed a bit, pressing a hand to his side.

“They give you an ETA on escaping this place?” Gray asked him.

“Couple more days at least,” Mac replied. “Trying to get the infection. Turned septic.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Gray nodded. “You’re a tough dude, Angus MacGyver. Not many people could’ve set up snares and trip wires with a wound like that.”

“Speaking of,” Jack shifted from watching Mac’s changing expressions to studying Gray. “Any word on the Mexican Army?”

“Army?” Mac asked, surprised.

Gray nodded. “According to Buckley—my, uh…boss at the Agency—they confiscated the cocaine and rounded up El Noche’s men. Even the ones hanging thirty feet off the ground—and believe me that was an interesting one to explain.”

“I’ll bet,” Jack gave him a half grin. “Not exactly a tactic from the CIA handbook.”

“I shared the images of the information you carved into the walls of the hut with Buckley and Director Webber,” Gray continued, tipping his head toward MacGyver. “It helped substantiate the reports with the Mexicans and pretty much added the last nails to El Noche’s coffin.”

“The girls?” Mac asked.

Gray nodded. “Mexican police were able to identify most of them and returned the bodies to the families for burial.”

Mac exhaled and sank back against the pillows. “Thank God,” he whispered. “When I woke up in that truck—“

“Hold up,” Jack broke in. “You were _in_ the truck?”

“For just a little bit, pretty soon after I found Cerberus,” Mac nodded. “They found me and knocked me out and I woke up in the dark.” His eyes shifted to a point Jack could no longer see. The thousand yard stare he’d told Bozer. It was back. “I literally tripped over them. I knew then that the reports, Jack,” he focused on Jack’s face once more. “They were all real. We’d just been—“

“—looking in the wrong place,” Jack nodded. “I know, and believe me, kid. El Noche’s not getting away with that.”

“They’re dismantling the park,” Gray told him. “Cerberus has met its match.”

“Just like with Hercules,” Mac muttered, eyes drifting once more.

The three men were quiet for a moment, then Gray stepped forward and gently bounced the back of his fingers against the side of Mac’s leg.

“Hey,” he said, drawing Mac’s eyes. “Listen up. Don’t run from them. The demons. They will run you into the ground if you do. You fight them.”

Mac frowned, as though he wanted to agree with what Gray was telling him, but was afraid of what that said about him.

“I don’t….”

“Stables, bull, bird, horses, Cerberus,” Gray reminded him. “You carved those words on the wall in that hut you were hiding out in.”

“They…uh, they’re the trials of Hercules,” Mac explained, sounding contrite.

“I don’t care if they’re your NCAA bracket,” Gray returned. “Use them as your weapons. You have to repel your demons until they _know_ they’re defeated.”

Mac simply looked at Gray for the space of several heartbeats. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, well,” Gray shifted away from the bed, and shoved his fingers into the pockets of his jeans. “Infiltrating the Russian mob has some…consequences.”

Mac nodded. “Thanks, Isaac. I mean it. For everything.”

Gray smiled. “Just promise me that next time I see you, I don’t have to save your life.”

“It’s a promise,” Mac smiled in return.

Jack held out a hand and clasped Gray’s in gratitude. “You’re a helluva pilot, Gray.”

“You’re a helluva shot, Dalton.” His eyes tracked from Jack to Mac and then returned. “And a good friend.”

With a quick salute, Gray left the room and Jack moved from the bed to his chair once more.

“Jack?” Mac’s voice was drowsy, his eyes already falling closed.

“Hmm?”

“You gonna stick around?”

Jack smiled. “Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

**

 


	6. Chapter 6

**MacGyver’s House**

**9 days since rescue**

**Midnight-ish**

_-Mac, finally-_

He honestly intended to finish the bike one day.

It was never supposed to become a grown-up erector set, but it seemed that’s what it had turned into over time. It kept his hands busy, kept him from focusing too much on what he couldn’t control, couldn’t solve, couldn’t change.

And…it had been his dad’s, so. There was a bit of poetic justice in his perpetually working on something that seemed destined to never truly be complete.

Bozer’s room was on the other side of the house and Mac could usually keep his nocturnal activities quiet, muffled even. But his hands weren’t quite steady, and it was hard to sit hunched over for long periods of time. So he eased the bike out onto the deck, breathing shallowly as the effort pulled at the wound on his side. He could sit in one of the deck chairs to work on the bike and not wake his roommate.

He was returning to grab his toolbox when he heard Bozer’s voice. It sounded like he was on the phone with someone. He froze, standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen, and listened.

“…just got out of the hospital, man. He should be _resting_. Letting me bring him food and binge-watching Netflix, y’know? Yeah…. _Yes_. I tried—don’t you think I tried to tell him?”

Mac exhaled on a four count, keeping his heartrate steady.

It was true; Bozer had tried to tell him to take it easy. He’d been attentive and caring and completely smothering in his mother-hen routine. Mac had just spent eight days in a hospital for children with the most attentive nursing staff on the planet and his partner literally never leaving his side.

He just wanted to breathe.

What he hadn’t counted on, however, was the complete, suffocating panic that overtook him the minute he was alone in his room, the dark closing in around him like hand on his throat.

“Look…I’m just saying he listens to you, is all. He’s not sleeping. No. _No_ , Jack. This is the second night he’s been home and he has yet to spend time in his bed, in his room.”

Mac bent slowly to retrieve his tool box and backed out of the room onto the deck. He could breathe on the deck. And he could sit without pressing against the wound at his side. He could still feel the phantom sensation of the wound drain in his side and found himself rubbing at his ribcage to rid himself of it.

He glanced at the clock on the wall next to the doorway. Midnight. Jack was probably less than thrilled that Bozer had called him so late. Sighing, Mac tried to push the thought away and sat down to work on the bike.

“No, I won’t back down,” he sang softly, distractedly. “I won’t back down. You could stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won’t back down.”

“Never knew you were such a Tom Petty fan.”

Mac jumped violently at the sound of Bozer’s voice, sweat breaking out across the back of his neck. He held very still, afraid for a moment that he would turn to look and _not_ see his friend.

“Mac?”

“Boze?”

Footsteps, the rush of air as a body passes, the smell of coconuts and Old Spice.

Mac lifted his head and exhaled when he saw Bozer standing by the handle bars, the moonlight reflecting off of his white T-shirt.

He was there. He was real.

He wasn’t just a voice inside Mac’s head.

“You okay, man?”

Mac nodded. “And uh…I’m not really. A fan, I mean. I just…can’t get that song out of my head.”

Bozer nodded, crossing his arms over his chest. “You want to talk about this?”

“It’s just a song, Boze,” Mac waved him off, returning to the bike.

“Not the _song_ , man. You. This.”

Mac licked his dry lips, noticing how his hand shook when he tried to fit the wrench over the lug nut. Food. That’s what he needed. Had to rebuild his strength.

“Nothing to talk about, really.”

Mac pushed to his feet, swallowing the grimace as the world shifted slightly around him and the stitches in his side pulled. He started around the bike and back toward the living room.

“Hell there ain’t!” Bozer followed, close on his heels.

Mac fought the instinct to push Bozer away. He didn’t want him gone. He didn’t want to be alone. But he felt trapped. Like he was being backed into a corner when all his friend was doing was showing concern.

Bozer’s actions were logical; Mac’s were not.

And he had no idea what to do with that.

Mac reached the kitchen with Bozer still close behind, spouting evidence of Mac’s poor choices and need to rest, to heal. He put his hands out, resting his palms flat on the counter and leaned forward, his head hanging down. He didn’t speak, didn’t answer.

_Couldn’t_ answer.

“Mac, c’mon, man,” Bozer slowed his verbal attack, his voice softening—probably because of the barely controlled tension Mac knew had to be visibly rippling through his body right now. “You haven’t been this…this messed up since your dad left.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Mac said, his voice rough.

“Yeah, I figured, but…,” Bozer sat heavily on one of the stools next to Mac. “What _is_ it about?”

“I can’t…I don’t….”

The words caught against a wall of resistance, shredding inside of him until they lost all depth, all meaning. He couldn’t even explain to himself what was going on, let alone spell it out for Bozer.

“You’re tired, man,” Bozer concluded. “I can see it—it’s practically bleeding out of you. You gotta sleep, Mac. You’re never going to get better if you don’t.”

“I’m hungry.”

Bozer pulled his head up. “Okay. That I can do something with.”

“Pancakes,” Mac said, trying very hard not make it sound like an order.

“Midnight pancakes happen to be a specialty of mine,” Bozer said, moving around to the kitchen and turning on the lights. “Of course, it’s usually for someone of the _feminine_ persuasion, if you know what I mean.”

“Bozer,” Mac smirked. “ _Everyone_ knows what you mean.”

Bozer tilted his head, grimacing. “Right.”

He turned to the stove and started to mix up the pancakes. Mac watched him without seeing him, his mind turning inward, the filing cabinets in his mind rearranging themselves until he could pull out a file and begin scanning the contents.

Harry had told him to pay attention—to everything, all the time. His hyper-awareness got him into MIT while he was still in high school. It kept him alive in Afghanistan. It kept him alive as a government agent.

But, it was exhausting. And incredibly hard to turn off.

“…said that I’d be going with you, so there’s that.”

Mac tuned back in to Bozer’s words as he mentally refiled the memory of Harry’s gruff voice softening as he told him _when good people cease their vigilance, evil men prevail_.

“Going with me where?”

“Next mission,” Bozer said, sliding two pancakes onto a plate Mac hadn’t even realized had been set in front of him. “Were you listening to anything I said?”

“Sure, Boze,” Mac agreed, digging into the food without waiting for butter or syrup. “I think it’s great. You’re more than ready.”

“Uh-huh,” Bozer said, chin up, eyes doubtful. “Did you hear the part where I said Matty wanted me to take lead?”

“You never said that,” Mac replied.

It was a total guess, and he was basing it both on Bozer’s tone of voice and the likelihood that Matty would ever put him in the lead, but he knew if he didn’t pass Bozer’s test he’d be subjected to another ten minute lecture about needing sleep.

“Damn,” Bozer sighed. “I really thought I had you that time.”

“These were good, Boze,” Mac said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Bozer blinked. “Did you _literally_ inhale those?”

“Told you I was hungry.” Mac pushed to his feet, pleased when he didn’t so much as waver. “Look, I’m going to work on the bike. I promise, when I get tired, I’ll sleep.”

“You got plenty of time,” Bozer reminded him. “Matty’s got you on leave for another week. At least.”

“Yeah,” Mac sighed. “I know. But you’re up tomorrow, so you better get some rest.”

“At least take a blanket out there,” Bozer requested.

Mac huffed a brief laugh. “Why?”

“Because I know you’re not going back to your room tonight and if you fall asleep out there, I don’t want you to get cold, all right?”

Mac nodded, honestly touched by his friend’s concern. “All right.”

He started to turn away, heading for the deck once more.

“Mac?”

He turned to see Bozer leaning against the counter. “Yeah?”

“When you were missing…and we thought you were dead,” Bozer’s voice was pitched low, his voice quavering with emotion. “It was the scariest three days of my life. I couldn’t…think. I couldn’t figure out how to…just…do regular stuff. Like eat. Or tie my shoes. I would end up at places and have literally no idea how I got there.”

Mac swallowed. “Boze….”

“I just…I want you to know,” Bozer pushed away from the counter, standing up straight and looking Mac directly in the eyes. “I get that you’re going through something. I know I can never _understand_ what it was like for you there, how you’re feeling now. But you also gotta know, man. You’re not alone. Losing you…it’s the worst thing that’s happened to me. And you _know_ that means something.”

Mac nodded, unable to find his voice.

Bozer turned off the lights in the kitchen and headed for his bedroom. Mac turned slowly back toward the deck, thinking about what Bozer said. The emotion in his voice. The concern for Mac’s well-being.

He wasn’t being logical. He knew that. And he couldn’t keep ignoring his fear in an effort to dismiss it—Gray was right. This was going to run him into the ground.

Before he could change his mind, he rotated on his heel and headed to his room. He opened the windows and left the door open so that it didn’t feel so…small and closed in like that horrible control booth.

Toeing off his Converse, he stretched out on his bed, letting his tense muscles lengthen with the relief of not having to hold his body upright. Grabbing the edge of his comforter, he rolled it around himself and closed his eyes, breathing in the soft, California night air as it slipped on a zephyr through his opened window and caressed his face like an old friend.

It took less time than he’d anticipated to sink into sleep. He wasn’t even conscious of the moment it happened; it was simply a moment of clarity and then a confusing tangle of dreams. The logical part of his mind—which seemed to have been the part most bruised by the bullet’s impact—recognized the illogical sequence of the dreams.

But the part that often found itself consumed by emotions was swiftly overrun.

He was wandering down a paved road overgrown with weeds, cracked and uneven, causing him to watch his footing. On either side of him where various-sized filing cabinets—some old, some wooden, some metal. He wanted to open them, explore their secrets, but he was…afraid.

What if he found out something he couldn’t deal with? What if he found out something he wasn’t ready to know?

He started walking faster. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something swinging toward him and he ducked, going to his knees and looking up, over his shoulder.

It was a body. Attached to a rope. By its feet.

He gasped. This was his snare. He had done this. He had caught this man…only…only it _wasn’t_ a man. Long dark hair shaded an oval face and wide, dark, empty eyes stared at him with accusation.

_“You let me die.”_

“Zoe?”

_“You weren’t quick enough…smart enough. I drowned. In the cold. Alone. Because of you.”_

Mac scrambled away from the swinging body, his breath coming in rapid bursts when water began to pour from the mouth, slipping over the eyes and soaking the hair, dripping onto the broken cement. He continued to back away until he ran into something solid. Turning he realized it was a person—the legs sturdy and strong…and encased in an EOD bomb suit.

_Oh, God, no…._

Alfred Pena stared down at him, half his face gone, the other half weeping.

_“You didn’t pay attention.”_

“No, I…I didn’t know….” He made it to his knees, staring up at Pena’s ruined face.

_“You could have saved me. You could have stopped it.”_

“I didn’t know!” Mac stumbled to his feet and began to run.

On either side of the road, filing cabinets began to open, files spilling out, becoming tangled, papers flying through the air like giant confetti. Walking toward him through the storm were several young girls, their long, dark hair covering their faces, their arms gray with death and rot.

Mac tried to change direction, but every way he turned, the girls where there. They spoke to him in one voice.

_“You could have saved us. You didn’t pay attention. You looked in the wrong place.”_

“No, I didn’t mean…I wanted to….”

He couldn’t breathe right, his chest tightening, pressing against his heart, like hands shoving on him.

“Stop, _please_ ,” Mac begged, fisting his hands at the side of his face. “Arghh…focus… _focus_ , dammit.”

_“You_ lost _focus.”_

Mac whipped his head up at that voice, one he was never really sure if he wanted to ever hear again. The shadow of a man walked toward him, the papers and files suddenly falling down around him as though weighted. Mac caught his breath.

The papers turned to ash and drifted away in small puffs of clouds in the wake of the man’s steps.

_“You lost focus, you lost people, you lose…everything.”_

The man drew closer and Mac couldn’t quite make out his face, but he knew. He _knew_ who the man was.

_“This is why I left.”_

“No!” Mac shouted. “No. Stop.” He curled his hands into tight fists, feeling them shake against his sides. He had to focus. He had to _think._ “Lion…hydra…stables…bird….”

“Jesus, Mac, c’mon!”

Wait…that voice wasn’t _here_. In this place of pain and ash. It didn’t echo in his head like an accusation.

“Wake up!”

It was real. It was _real_ , and close and scared.

The next thing he knew, Mac was gulping air as though he were surfacing from a deep pool of water. He was sitting up in his bed, the comforter twisted at his waist, his T-shirt soaked with sweat, his body shivering. His hands were fisted in something thick and soft.

“That’s it, you’re okay.”

_Jack_. It was Jack’s voice. It was Jack’s shirt his hands were currently gripping.

“’m…sorry, I’m s-sorry,” Mac gasped, not quite able to uncurl his fingers. He blinked, surprised to find tears tenting his lashes, his face wet with them. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

Jack put his hands over Mac’s and gently pried his grip loose. Mac felt his hands tremble in Jack’s. He couldn’t seem to get his breathing to calm down.

“Easy, you’re okay,” Jack said softly. “Just one easy breath, kid.”

As though to illustrate his command, Jack pulled in a long, slow breath, nodding slowly to encourage Mac to follow. He did, pulling air in and letting it out on a four count each time. After a few more, he felt his trembling slow and Jack released his hands.

Mac reached up and dragged a hand down his face, brushing away tears he hadn’t even realized he’d let fall. He needed to get up, out, _away_. He struggled with the comforter for a moment before freeing his legs and launching himself out of his bed and into the hallway.

It took until then for Mac to realize it was daylight.

“What…what time is it?” he asked, instinctively knowing that Jack would be behind him.

“It’s almost noon,” Jack replied.

He’d slept almost twelve hours.

“Wow,” he said, stumbling forward, rubbing his sweaty hair and sinking onto one of the stools at their kitchen counter. “Guess Bozer was right…I did need rest.”

“I wouldn’t call that rest,” Jack retorted, taking position on the other side of the counter.

Mac felt heat climb his chest, skipping over his still-racing heart, and wrap around his throat. Jack was here. He was here, _now_. Which is what he’d wanted. It’s what he asked for every day he was trapped, hiding and hurting and desperate, in that control booth.

So why was he so _angry_?

Jack looked at him, his dark eyes soft and full of sympathy. He’d been next to Mac’s bed every day he was in the hospital. He’d been the one to wake Mac from his nightmares and to remind him that he was safe, that he was back, that Jack _had him_.

And yet Mac felt his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Talk to me, Mac. What is going on with you?”

Mac felt his heart tremble and hung his head, too hollowed out and wrung dry to push back. “I don’t know.” He was acute aware of how fragile his voice sounded; it reflected the state of his mind.

“You went through something awful, I know—“

“No, see,” Mac backed away from the counter toward the living room. “That’s just it. You don’t know. You _can’t_ , because you weren’t _there_!”

He turned to the side, eyes scanning the empty space where his bike had been parked, seeking something familiar, something solid and seeing only a small, dirty floor, scattered debris, paint chips, blood. He could hear the low murmur of the mercenaries, the aborted cry of the men he caught in his traps. He could smell the heat and the pain and the hopelessness that bled from him.

“I waited for you…,” he rasped, not seeing Jack straighten from his side of the counter. “I heard you. Every day. But…you weren’t there.”

Hearing Jack’s boots shift, Mac looked toward him. The wave of pain that swept Jack’s features felt like a hit to Mac’s solar plexus. For a moment, his breath was frozen. Jack looked away, his jaw working, then turned back to Mac, his eyes hot and hard.

Mac swallowed and brought his chin up, his arms wrapping around his mid-section in a gesture of protection born of pure instinct. He knew Jack wouldn’t hurt him, but with that look the world suddenly seemed to yawn wide, tipping him dangerously over a jagged-edged precipice that would cut him apart until he shattered the moment he reached the bottom.

“Angus,” Jack said, his voice as serious as Mac had ever heard it, “I need you to hear me right now. I never wanted to leave you there. And I’m sorry it took me so long to find you. I am more sorry than I can ever tell you.”

Mac swore he could hear their hearts beat in the quiet of the room. Something pressed down around him, like the pressure of a coming storm. He felt his breath began to pick up, his body stretching with the force of it.

“You are right,” Jack continued, moving slowly around the edge of the counter, his hands up in an _I come in peace_ gesture. “I wasn’t there. But you survived it. You _did that_.”

Jack continued to approach him, slowly, voice low and measured. It struck Mac that he moved as though he were calming a skittish horse or a cornered animal; the way his heart was pounding, his breath hammering from between his lips, it wasn’t far off.

He suddenly felt like he was made of glass.

“I’m proud of you, man,” Jack said softly, finally getting close enough to put a hand on Mac’s shoulder. “You didn’t back down.”

Mac huffed a weak laugh. “Can’t get that damn song out of my head.”

“Tom Petty?”

Mac nodded, feeling his eyes burn. He pulled in a breath, his body tensing as though bracing for an explosion.

“Same here, brother,” Jack said, his smile gentle. “In fact…it was that song that helped me remember where you were.”

Mac frowned. “Remember?”

Jack shrugged helplessly.

The image of Jack, pale and bleeding, hanging limp in the arms of the exfil pilots, flashed across Mac’s vision and he gasped in a quick breath, stumbling backwards, away from Jack. His mind began to categorize all of the impacts Jack’s wound would have had on his system—and loss of memory was at the top of the list.

A sudden clarity hit him like a punch: Jack hadn’t left him—he had almost lost Jack.

“Oh, Jesus, Jack,” he breathed, one hand going out in a desperate bid for balance as the world seemed to drop out from under him.

Jack grabbed his arm, pulling him forward, saying his name, but Mac couldn’t focus on him. Instead, all he saw was the blood covering Jack’s leg, the bodies of the girls left to die inside a box truck, the faces of Zoe, Pena, the Ambassador’s son…his father.

The weight of loss was like an anvil on his chest; he couldn’t breathe. His vision swam.

He didn’t register having gone to the floor until he felt Jack’s arm across his back, holding him up, his other hand splayed across Mac’s chest and a voice in his ear telling him _slow and easy, that’s it, just breathe_.

“Jack—“ he gasped, his chest hitching, iron bands twisting until he felt like his ribs were breaking. “Jack…I can’t….”

“Yes, you can,” Jack was saying, his voice solid and certain. “You got this, Angus. Just breathe. With me, here, like this.”

Jack filled his lungs and Mac felt the motion, trying to mimic him. He blocked out the fear and the pain and the realization that he’d almost lost his partner; his whole world became _just one more breath._

“There you go. It’s just us here now. I got you.”

He felt nauseous and sweaty and completely without strength. He leaned against Jack.

“One easy breath, that’s it.”

Mac forced himself to follow Jack’s instructions and finally, _finally_ felt the world reform around him.

“What happened?” he asked weakly when he could breathe again.

“Think they call that a panic attack,” Jack said quietly. “Your head is like a minefield right now.”

“I feel terrible,” Mac groaned, trying to sit forward. Jack eased him up. He felt tight and transparent and strangely like he wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean…I wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, that’s a first,” Jack said, a smile evident in his voice. “Pretty sure the opposite is true. You’re thinking too much.”

“I mean…I didn’t…,” he let his head fall forward into the hammock of his hands. “You could have died. I actually…for a while there, I thought you had.”

“I’m here, brother,” Jack rested a hand on his back. “I’m right here, and I’m okay. And all those voices you heard back at that Hell…that was just you making it through one more day. That’s all it was.”

Mac let out a shaky breath. “I want to…I don’t know,” he shook his head helplessly. “Put all this…this stuff that’s tangled up inside me somewhere. Just…put it away so I can deal with it later.”

“Don’t think it works like that, man.”

“Harry told me,” Mac said, rubbing the back of his neck and grimacing at the gritty feel of his skin, “that I had filing cabinets in my head. Said my dad did the same thing.”

Jack looked down and Mac became more aware of how they were sitting: his body curled up, legs crossed, positioned between Jack’s splayed-out legs in the middle of his living room where his bike was once parked. He imagined it looked like someone had just dropped them in a pile from the sky.

“You compartmentalize like no one I’ve ever met,” Jack acknowledged. “It’s probably the only way you can organize all that information you pull up at a moment’s notice to save the day.”

Mac looked at his hands. He didn’t feel like he’d been saving much lately.

“But, like I’ve said before…sometimes you just run out of storage space. Even real filing cabinets have to get sorted sometimes, y’know? You can’t just put everything away in a box somewhere and never open the lid.” Jack ducked his head, catching Mac’s gaze. “You do that for too long, the lid gets blown off.”

“I’ve…I messed up, Jack. A lot, lately.”

“How so?” Jack pulled his head back, his frown fierce.

Mac shook his head, worrying his lower lip, the walls of his glass heart growing thin. “The Ambassador and his family. Zoe. Those girls. My dad.” He took a breath. “You.”

Jack dropped a heavy hand on Mac’s shoulder. “Mac, there’s always going to be those we can save, and those we can’t. You know that. You’ve told _me_ that.”

Mac nodded, biting the inside of his lip. He felt emotion coil like a ball at the base of his throat. He did not want to let it free; he wasn’t sure he could control it if he did.

Jack reached inside the neck of his black Metallica T-shirt and, to Mac’s surprise, pulled out a set of dog tags. Upon closer look he realized they were _his_ dog tags.

“Where did you get those?” Mac asked, holding out his hand as Jack pulled the chain over his head and dropped them into his upturned palm.

“Found ‘em in your room,” Jack said. “For a while there, I…I couldn’t remember what happened to you, but…I _knew_ you weren’t dead. I knew it, Mac,” he thumped two fingers against his sternum, “in here. I knew you were fighting; you wouldn’t leave me like that.”

Mac looked at the pieces of metal in his hand, at once capturing everything and nothing about him.

“When I finally remembered, it was like…having those dog tags meant you were with me. Pushing me to think bigger, to look around the corners and see the other side of the picture like you always do.”

Mac sniffed, his chin shaking slightly.

“You haven’t messed up with me, kid.” Jack’s voice was quiet. “Not once. Not ever.”

A tear tracked down Mac’s face, leaving a cool trail on his hot skin.

“And your dad, man…,” Jack sighed. “He’s the one who messed up there. Not you. _Never_ you.”

“I keep seeing him,” Mac confessed, his voice cracking with emotion. “In this dream I have where everyone I didn’t save…turns to…to ash,” his voice hitched and he felt more tears slip free, “and he says that…that this is why he left.” He looked up at Jack, his friend’s face wavering through the bend of tears. “Because I don’t save them.”

He sniffed, his chest tight with the need to release emotion. Jack’s face folded with care and he smiled.

“You remember that day in Farah when you dug me out of that building?” Jack asked, seemingly out of the blue. “You found me because you rigged up that beeper thing?”

Mac nodded, confused.

“You saved me. _You_. Because of that freaking amazing mind and the fact that you _just don’t quit_.” Jack shrugged. “You don’t, man. You’ve saved all of us. So many times.”

Mac looked down.

“Your dad is missing out on knowing one of the most amazing human beings on the _planet_ , bud.” Jack rested a heavy hand on the back of Mac’s neck. “I’m absolutely serious. The world is a better place just because you’re sitting here. Breathing,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Mac chuffed, wiping at his tears with the back of his hand. Jack’s phone buzzed and he shifted, pulling it from his pocket. After glancing at the screen, he smiled slightly.

“And if you don’t believe me, I got someone I want you to meet.”

“Who was that?” Mac asked, curling his fingers around the dog tags in his hand.

“Our pal, Isaac Gray,” Jack said. “I asked him to look something up for me. Think you can get up? Grab a shower?”

Mac nodded, but accepted Jack’s help pulling him to his feet. He was weak and dizzy. Jack kept hold of him until he found his balance.

“Clean up a little and I’ll have a sandwich waiting for you when you get done,” Jack told him.

Back in his room, Mac draped the dog tags on his lamp once more, glancing at the watch he’d positioned under the magnifying lamp. He realized hadn’t told Jack why he’d taken his dog tags from his personnel file. He figured that story could wait for another time.

Standing in his bathroom, he regarded his lean face as a stranger might. Butterfly bandages closing a cut across his forehead that would no doubt scar, smudges of exhaustion beneath eyes that seemed too blue at the moment. Cheekbones casting shadows.

Taking a breath, he showered quickly—avoiding the stitches in his side from the both the bullet graze and from where the wound drain had been inserted—and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt, all a bit too loose on his frame. He headed back to the kitchen, his stomach growling at the smell of grilled meat.

“I thought you said you were making a sandwich.”

Jack shrugged, and set a large cheeseburger in front of him. “A cheeseburger is a sandwich.”

“A cheeseburger is a cheeseburger,” Mac argued, simply for the sake of poking back at Jack.

His partner smirked, clearly enjoying their usual banter. “Well, you need to eat about seventeen of these a day for the next two weeks to get back to where you started, so I don’t want to hear anything outta you but chewing noises, capiche?”

Mac grinned and ate, feeling more balanced with each bite. The minute he was done, Jack handed him his jacket and gestured toward the door.

“Where are we going?”

“Let me worry about that,” Jack replied. “You just soak up this amazing L.A. sun and fresh air.”

Those were easy enough orders to follow. Mac sat in the passenger seat, window down, arm on the doorframe, and closed his eyes, letting the air push warm fingers through his hair. He listened to Jack sing along with the classic rock station with a half grin on his face.

When they pulled off the highway and took several switchbacks through the mountains, paralleling the shoreline, Mac sat up a bit straighter, paying attention to this surroundings.

“Jack, what is this?”

“I asked a favor of our boy, Isaac Gray,” Jack said, turning into an empty car park area above the beach.

Well, nearly empty—there was one car parked at the far end. A non-descript Toyota with two people sitting inside.

“What kind of a favor?” Mac asked, frowning as Jack turned off the GTO’s engine, the lack of music making the quiet of the shoreline deafening.

“Remember what I said back at that house,” Jack started, hands resting on the steering wheel, eyes on the horizon, “about knowing there are those we can save and those we can’t? It’s the first thing I learned in combat. And it’s not a lesson anyone ever _wants_ to learn.”

Mac nodded, feeling the walls of his glass heart thin further.

“I wanted you to see that sometimes even when we can’t save someone,” Jack looked past Mac to the car on the other side of the lot, “we can still do a helluva lot of good.”

Mac looked over at the car, and watched as the two people exited and stood on the same side, facing Jack’s GTO. A man and a woman, both Hispanic, looking to be about Jack’s age. Mac swallowed hard, his hands flinching against his pant leg, his fingers needing something to keep them busy as his mind spun through a thousand scenarios.

“C’mon,” Jack said, climbing out of the car and heading around to the other side.

He paused, waiting for Mac to exit, then began walking toward the man and woman, Mac trailing behind, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he was pretty sure it was about to shatter. They stopped about five feet away from the couple, and waited as the man led both of them over to meet in the middle.

“Mr. Hernandez?” Jack asked, holding out a hand for the other man to shake. “My name is Jack Dalton,” he tipped his head to the side, “and this is Angus MacGyver.”

Mr. Hernandez shook Jack’s hand and then stepped directly in front of Mac, his dark eyes tracing the marks and bruises on Mac’s face, then tracking down his thin frame before bouncing back up to meet Mac’s gaze.

“You are the one,” Hernandez started, his voice accented and thick with emotion. “The one who found our Elaina.”

Mac couldn’t breathe. His eyes burned, his hands trembled. He could only nod.

“Thank you,” Hernandez held out his hand, which Mac took instinctively, his trembling masked by the man’s calloused palms and strong grip. “Thank you for sending her home to us.”

“I’m so sorry—“ Mac started, his voice catching as tears burned his eyes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save her.”

“But you see…you did what I could not,” Hernandez said, tears leaving tracks as they raced each other to his goatee. “Elaina had been lost to us—I could not find her, I could not bring her home. We feared we would never know what happened to her, that she would be out in the world, forever missing, and our hearts would be hollow with the pain.” He put an arm around his wife, who had not taken her eyes off of Mac. “Now, they are broken, but they are also full. We can bury her near us, and that is because of you.”

Mac sniffed, trying to hold his emotion in check. Mrs. Hernandez stepped forward and put her hands on either side of Mac’s face. Staring up at him, she whispered, “ _Gracias_ ,” then pulled his face down to her and kissed his forehead over his wound.

Nodding, Mac straightened up, his tears slipping free as Mrs. Hernandez released his face. With that, the couple turned and climbed back into their car, then drove out of the car park and down the road. Mac exhaled an unsteady breath and faced the shoreline, the late afternoon sun turning the water to diamonds and dazzling his eyes.

After a moment, he reached up and dragged a hand down his face, wiping at the tears. He took a slow breath and felt the walls of his glass heart begin to solidify into something closer to what they’d been before that moment in the box truck when he was confronted by the worst of humanity.

“Thanks, Jack,” he managed.

Jack slung an arm over his shoulder, the warmth of his body as he pulled Mac against his side almost like an embrace.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood side by side for a long time, staring across the water, watching the sun slip lower on the horizon. Mac knew that it would be a while until he, as Jack put it, was ready to take on the world again.

It would be a while before he was able to get through a night without seeing people he couldn’t save turn to ash. It would be a while before his heart felt sturdy and solid.

As Jack turned them back to the car, whistling Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down,” Mac knew that it was going to be okay. _He_ was going to be okay.

Because he wouldn’t be going through any of it alone.

**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **a/n:** Thank you for reading. If you’ve felt compelled to review, thank you for that, too. To be honest, I never expected to write _one_ MacGyver story let alone _three_ (and I actually have an idea for another in this ‘verse…we’ll see…I may wander fandoms a bit). I’ve enjoyed playing in this sandbox; I hope you were entertained.


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